EVERY LAST DROP
By Michael L. Craver
Though long ago they poured the final glass, he’s shaking the bottle. Getting out every ounce of moisture. Though this rolled message in a bottle will have curvatures and be uncontrollably curled, he doesn’t want any water damage.
She’s a tornado of a three-year old and the cup used to be full of her favorite juice. Mom is just behind her on the couch trying to keep up. The Starbucks is nearly depleted. Was it enough fuel for her to catch the zest of her loins? Coffee vs re-hydrated toddler…
Rehab is tomorrow and he’s having one for the road, to recovery. Tasting the barley and sitting in a familiar seat. Saying goodbye to a place, in his life, he will use as a reference point. Taking a new direction. Many things he will never remember, bottomless nights. Yet, this final glass will last forever.
A rendezvous by the window. Sitting inside for a warm meal and sharing stories like a father and son playing catch. Then… a waiter is searching. He finds them outside relaxing. They order some dessert and have a glass of wine in the sunset that’s painting the porch of the restaurant. Meeting every few years since college. 50 years leads to one final conversation and a couple empty glasses.
My father keeps three feeders hanging outside of his workshop. The place he does puzzles and fixes things with methods only an ingenious carpenter could derive. Watching them zoom by the window. Often in pairs, sometimes more, they drain the sweet nectar away. I’d guess they enjoy the taste more. Yet, it would be hard to say he’s not as thankful for their beautiful company as they are for the offering. He’ll gladly mix up a new batch. Perhaps they know that by emptying their trinity of thirst-quenching fixtures, replenishment isn’t long away. Just the same, loving every drop.
She is calling the authorities to report her daughter stealing the car. A young lady of 25 whose father never let her drive his prize. A rite of passage, she took the keys and hit the interstate. He would have appreciated her spirit. The only living will gave her stepmother everything. And two hours later she pulls up. Shutting the door, she tosses the keys to the waiting owner on the front step. Saying her goodbye with a Firebird of her own. An empty tank crosses Daddy’s ride off her bucket list.
Though long ago they poured the final glass, he’s shaking the bottle. Getting out every ounce of moisture. Though this rolled message in a bottle will have curvatures and be uncontrollably curled, he doesn’t want any water damage.
She’s a tornado of a three-year old and the cup used to be full of her favorite juice. Mom is just behind her on the couch trying to keep up. The Starbucks is nearly depleted. Was it enough fuel for her to catch the zest of her loins? Coffee vs re-hydrated toddler…
Rehab is tomorrow and he’s having one for the road, to recovery. Tasting the barley and sitting in a familiar seat. Saying goodbye to a place, in his life, he will use as a reference point. Taking a new direction. Many things he will never remember, bottomless nights. Yet, this final glass will last forever.
A rendezvous by the window. Sitting inside for a warm meal and sharing stories like a father and son playing catch. Then… a waiter is searching. He finds them outside relaxing. They order some dessert and have a glass of wine in the sunset that’s painting the porch of the restaurant. Meeting every few years since college. 50 years leads to one final conversation and a couple empty glasses.
My father keeps three feeders hanging outside of his workshop. The place he does puzzles and fixes things with methods only an ingenious carpenter could derive. Watching them zoom by the window. Often in pairs, sometimes more, they drain the sweet nectar away. I’d guess they enjoy the taste more. Yet, it would be hard to say he’s not as thankful for their beautiful company as they are for the offering. He’ll gladly mix up a new batch. Perhaps they know that by emptying their trinity of thirst-quenching fixtures, replenishment isn’t long away. Just the same, loving every drop.
She is calling the authorities to report her daughter stealing the car. A young lady of 25 whose father never let her drive his prize. A rite of passage, she took the keys and hit the interstate. He would have appreciated her spirit. The only living will gave her stepmother everything. And two hours later she pulls up. Shutting the door, she tosses the keys to the waiting owner on the front step. Saying her goodbye with a Firebird of her own. An empty tank crosses Daddy’s ride off her bucket list.
Half an hour ago his
oxygen tank fell empty. The latest tribulation on his solo expedition. Budgeting
just enough to cover the plane ticket and a few supplies. The doctors told him
six weeks, he fired back that he can do it in five. What’s a cancer prognosis
anyway, but a suggestion… Guides pace the climb to take about two months. But
they plan to come back down. Weeks later as they found him frozen at the Summit
of Everest. When he was thawed his note read, “If you see my kids, tell them I
went out on top.”
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