August

Our neighbor, tall and blonde and vigorous, the m other of many children, is sick..;.

All summer the children, grown now and some of them with children, of their own, come to visit...

They all smile.

June, July, August. Every day, we hear their laughter. I think of the painting by van Gogh, the man in the chair. Everything wrong, and nowhere to go. His hands over his eyes.

So appropriate this piece on the eve of June, July, August and with the news today that the oil will continue to flow into the Gulf unto August. All summer. Everything seems wrong about this, and there is nowhere for the oil to go, safely, with health. If we cover our eyes to this tragedy, however, we would miss the laughter, the smile that is part of the oil, part of us, part of cancer, part of death. Some days though, what can we do but sit with our heads bowed, or held in the laps of others, silent with the ache of abundance in the midst of loss.

What is "wrong" before you this summer?