Marilyn Yalom has just died,
that’s what I’ve just read.
Sitting here, in a cafe,
people watching,
people listening;
one man’s real pain
that words can’t capture,
and can’t do it justice.
Upon reading about how she died,
at peace,
with that “icy kiss” on her cheek,
I can’t help but look around and smile,
a gratitude born of sorrow,
for everywhere there’re people,
hand in hand,
every one of them with a story to tell,
every one of them here, now;
but they’re all heading in the same direction
as Marilyn;
the same destination:
The Potential Void
that was there
(here)
before us.
And then I look across the table,
at my own wife;
she’s tapping her feet to the rhythm
of the foreign music;
the dregs of cappuccino in her cup;
and I know that,
one day,
she won’t be here,
like Marilyn,
and I’ll feel Irv’s pain.
Or I won’t be here,
and we won’t be here,
and the world will carry on, as it does,
and people will walk,
hand in hand,
like us,
like Marilyn and Irv once did.
***
Inspired by A Matter of Death and Life by Irvin D. Yalom and Marilyn Yalom.
You can buy it here.
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