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Flowers Are Dancing

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I've always had a problem with death. At my sister's funeral, one of my drama-queen cousins began to wail, "It's all God's mercy." God's mercy? First, she's tortured by cancer; then, it kills her. I suppose that's the mercy part. When my time comes, and I stand before the Creator, I'll be asking a few questions. Much to my eternal damnation, I'm sure. My first encounter with death was in October of 1959, when I was five years old. My grandfather had just died from heart failure and our large extended family was gathering at the old farmhouse located in Lafourche Parish, Louisiana. Theophile G. was a tall, gaunt man:  Lincolnesque.  My earliest memories of him were of me sitting on his lap sipping coffee-milk while he sang songs in French. He was a Louisiana  Creole  farmer and he worked his 40  arpents  from dawn to dusk, ruled by the seasons as all farmers are. How he managed to support his wife and five daughters on such a small farm is s...
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Drifting

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It's cold in the hospital room—not just the frigid temperature but also the general atmosphere itself. Oh, they've tried to add warmth to it, the comfy furniture, the wood paneling, pastel-colored walls. However, it's still a hospital room and will never achieve the "family-friendly" ideal the designers envisioned. Two o'clock AM and Dad is having a stormy night. He is adrift on an angry ocean. I hope by early morning, he'll find his way home and set foot on a familiar shore, albeit a jagged one. I know that one night he will not return to us. He'll remain lost on that bitter sea. I'd like to believe he'll find his way to a farther shore and find my sister welcoming him. I want to think that all his family is there: his mother, father, sisters, brothers. His legions of friends would also be there, laughing and telling jokes in French. I know there is a fear in all sailors from my naval service, mostly unspoken—a fear of being swept overboard. T...
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