an old writer and his words

  • AND NEXT

    “I’m not getting any younger”is, of course, a positively idiotic statementbeating the obvious to deathwith a blunt verbal instrument.But it still beats sayingthat death impends ever closerfor that is simply turgidand odious all at the same time.What I’m here to sayis that by being crematedI’m saving you all mannerof expense, no gravesite, no stone,no maintenance…

    Lou Faber

  • A VISIT

    I used to say that my birth parents,both dead before I could give them names,her youthful face from yearbooks,come to me now in my dreams.Of course that isn’t true, theydid not come to me in my dreamsdespite my hollow invitationsso I went to them, for they no longertravel very much, preferring to stayin their well-maintained…

    Lou Faber

  • MEMORY

    She regularly visits the cemetery,sits for hours on the little folding stoolshe brings with her, at his gravesiteand reminisces with him over momentsof joy and sadness they had shared.Once a year she brings flowerswhich she leaves in the small pot.When she planted them in the soilbut would find them dead by her next visit.She wondered…

    Lou Faber

  • ANTIQUEING

    Mother was an inveterate attendeeat flea markets and Goodwill storesand I would accompany her.She had a knack for antiques, wouldrummage for stereopticon slides,player piano rolls and anything elseshe thought belonged in the family roomshe had taken back to the late 19th century.She scouted the stalls, the darkcorners where Goodwill put thingsthey didn’t think would sell,…

    Lou Faber

  • THE EASE OF FORGETTING

    I have little memory of the manwho was my first adoptive fatherand none of his funeral, two-year-olds,my mother said, should notknow of death at that age.Nor did I attend my grandmother’s,she the mother of my second adoptive fatherbecause 12-year-old shouldn’thave the memory of funerals,according to my mother.I did attend her mother’s funeral,had to because I…

    Lou Faber

  • LURKING

    You lurk behind meas I sit at the islandboth the messenger and the message.You appear magicallyon my chair back, your tailwrapping my neck, a mink like scarfregardless of the temperature.I hear a slowly growing rumbleas if with my ear to the groundI can sense a distant temblor.And then there is the flickof dampened sandpaper on…

    Lou Faber

  • NEWBORN

    When you first pick her upshe is so much smallerthan you had imagined,fitting comfortably into the crookof an elbow, your handunder her knees.She raises a thin armand stares into andthen through youwith navy blue eyesthat you carry awayin your dreams.She is not fragile,that is the wrong wordfor her size beliesa strength she shareswith you, a…

    Lou Faber

  • A FADED PHOTO

    They stood side-by-sideas if frozen, adjacent butnot touching, two dollswhose hands were incapable of movement.They are expressionless, neitherstoic nor smiling as though the photographerwiped their faces free of expression.Grant Wood might have painted them,named his work Lithuanian Gothic.I want so to see the people behindthese facades, but I knowthat in 1934 a photograph wasa production,…

    Lou Faber

  • A FAREWELL VISIT

    My mother no longer visits mein my dreams, actuallyneither does for I’ve had two,the advantage or is itdisadvantage of the adoptee.None of my three fathersever paid a postmortem visit.It complicates things when allI know of my birth mother isfrom a college yearbook photo,but that is how she looked in thosefew visits after I discovered her.The…

    Lou Faber

  • HOW MANY

    The better question, the onefor which there can beno real answer, ishow many couples of our agewould be together today,would never have gotten together,if we had cell phonesand tablets when we were young.The use of that word alonestrongly hints at whatI imagine that answer to be.A telephone, landlinethey now call it, required presence,required you to…

    Lou Faber