27 February 2010
There are nights to remember, nights to live for. A family wedding on a viciously tropical July night. Supper at the beach, grilled zucchini and salmon, sweet corn, wine, and bonhomie born of fifty years of friendship—followed by "Springtime for Hitler" in the wee hours. The first evening I cooked a meal for my wife. Grandchildren sleeping over, making origami cranes, Jord and I sharpening his jackknife, Old Maid, paper airplanes, cheesy Price/Lorre horror shorts, burned ready-to-bake chocolate chip cookies. My imagination boggles, sputters, and dies: it beats the hell out of me why any man in this position would feel the slightest need to annoy God with questions about whether his life has meaning.