James Wright

[birdcages.livejournal.com]

Honey

    My father died at the age of eighty. One of the last things he did
in his life was to call his fifty-eight-year-old son-in-law "honey." One
afternoon in the early 1930's, when I bloodied my head by pitching
over a wall at the bottom of a hill and believed that the mere sight
of my own blood was the tragic meaning of life, I heard my father
offer to murder his future son-in-law. His son-in-law is my brother-
in-law, whose name is Paul. These two grown men rose above me
and knew that a human life is murder. They weren't fighting about
Paul's love for my sister. They were fighting with each other because
one strong man, a factory worker, was laid off from his work, and
the other strong man, the driver of a coal truck, was laid off from
his work. They were both determined to live their lives, and so they
glared at each other and said they were going to live, come hell or
high water. High water is not trite in southern Ohio. Nothing is trite
along a river. My father died a good death. To die a good death
means to live one's life. I don't say a good life.
    I say a life.