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At 96 he bragged about his aim,
he'd celebrate one hundred years,
still at the wheel, adrift in stormy seas,
a life of work for self and other men.
The time soon slipped its ugly nose
beneath the door, past squeaky hinges
and touched him gently by the scruff
to let him know about it all, about the how,
the customary changing of the guards.
They had prepared to sit and have their meal,
fresh picked among the never-ending stones
that had been hardened, rough companions
in their beloved garden in far north Vermont.
No, it is fine, he said, a smile now graced his face,
I shall be done with all my meals, it is the way,
it is on Friday week that you will find for me
one hundred candles, just to mark the day.
He never ate again, just sat and sipped his juice,
and water from their well with one small sprig of mint,
to stir and occupy the time that let her have
their long accustomed pleasure of each meal.
She found the candles, little ones, and brought them home
inside the secret pocket of her white and blue,
his face had never glowed so brightly, she could feel
a farewell warmth to take the chill and make it go.
The day did come, dear God, they sat, his hand so small,
but kindred blood was holding fast to say good byes
It is just fine, she said, you may as well now go
he answered, yes, my love and closed his hazel eyes.
Herbert Nehrlich
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