Boxes. Little Boxes. Little Boxes on a Hillside.

My time in Utah draws near. I eat on outdoor furniture and just threw away some things I thought I would be buried with in my cozy little urn. I was thinking about a Greek Urn.

“What’s a Greek Urn?” Oh about the same wage as everybody else.

It’s fun to train again. I get up and do my little Goblet Squats and Swings and try to figure out a way to loosen up more. I have added a proud amount of fat the past few weeks and I’m dealing with that now. Then, each day, I train. I am doing the Boost workouts from Viking Warrior Conditioning and more presses than I ever thought I could do. I feel good. I am going to have some time to write soon, too, not just some rambling and musings.

I’m proctoring the last and final exam of my career. It just slipped past me…the time, the years, the days. Others have said it better:

Poem at Thirty-Nine

How I miss my father.
I wish he had not been
so tired
when I was
born.

Writing deposit slips and checks
I think of him.
He taught me how.
This is the form,
he must have said:
the way it is done.
I learned to see
bits of paper
as a way
to escape
the life he knew
and even in high school
had a savings
account.

He taught me
that telling the truth
did not always mean
a beating;
though many of my truths
must have grieved him
before the end.

How I miss my father!
He cooked like a person
dancing
in a yoga meditation
and craved the voluptuous
sharing
of good food.

Now I look and cook just like him:
my brain light;
tossing this and that
into the pot;
seasoning none of my life
the same way twice; happy to feed
whoever strays my way.

He would have grown
to admire
the woman I’ve become:
cooking, writing, chopping wood,
staring into the fire.

Alice Walker

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