The Committee Weighs In
Andrea Cohen
I tell my mother
I’ve won the Nobel Prize.
Again? she says. Which
discipline this time?
It’s a little game
we play: I pretend
I’m somebody, she
pretends she isn’t dead
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Grief
By Raymond Carver
Woke up early this morning and from my bed
looked far across the Strait to see
a small boat moving through the choppy water,
a single running light on. Remembered
my friend who used to shout
his dead wife’s name from the hilltops
around Perugia. Who set a plate
for her at his simple table long after
she was gone. And opened the windows
so she could have fresh air. Such display
I found embarrassing. So did his other
friends. I couldn’t see it.
Not until this morning.
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This will be my third Christmas without my beloved grandfather, a loss that left a hero-sized hole in my life. After he passed in 2020 at the age of 97, I wrote the following as a bit of a eulogy, shared now in recognition of all of us who are approaching the holidays through the filter of grief.
My eulogy:
🔗 https://jeffreyaward.wordpress.com/2022/12/08/eulogy-man-and-a-boat/
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Me and my grandfather, Christmas 1972: