Archive
09/08/08 - (2)
Sunday Nights
Almost every Sunday night, for the past five years, Janie and I sat down to dinner With her vibrant, intelligent, engaging dad, Alvin,
The three of us delighting in our mischievous synergy. 7:30 Sunday was the apogee of our week, And when the Beaujolais was poured,
Before we'd parse menus we knew by heart, We'd raise our glasses and offer a toast To the ghosts of our shared heritage, toast ourselves,
The three of us echoing "l'chaim," Followed by a deeply felt "And to your good health," As we focused into each other's eyes.
I well remember my routine, Driving the five minutes, from my apartment, to Al's, Picking him up ("You're always so punctual, L.D.!").
His grin said he was eager to see me, to go out, In his blue blazer, khaki slacks, brightly hued dress shirt, Overworked tie, casual shoes, white socks.
Then we'd head west, to Janie's house (Discussing politics, sports, his exercise, health), To complete our small circle.
We felt alive, in his self-effacing embrace. He was far more interesting than anyone our age. His impish humor engendered the best of the worst, in us.
And so, the Thursday after Al died, serenely, in his sleep, Janie and I hardly knew what to do, Other than cast a melancholy eye each other's way,
At the luncheon preceding his private interment And at the service he'd have appreciated, for its brevity, Inside the austere, stained-glass mausoleum.
That first Sunday night by ourselves, The two of us echoed our "l'chaims"s and "good health"s, As though everything, and nothing, were the same.
09/08/08 - (2)
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