Monday, July 20, 2009

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night


Sitting on a bench in the main square waiting for the band to set up in the gazebo, Brian commented: "We're early."

"They're supposed to start at 11 o'clock" Shelley replied.

Brian looked at his watch, "It's 11:15" he said. "We're early."

Not as many people in the park on Sunday as usual. It's chilly outside. The young girls walk around in puffy winter jackets like they'd wear in Saskatoon in December. Shelley has her jean jacket on (still no socks) and Brian's wearing an unlined rain jacket. We're comfortable. We've conjectured to each other that there's less people because of the weather.

Later on we pick up 10 apples, a giant papaya, 3 avocados, 7 tomatoes & 15 bananas and Brian complains because it costs $7.00. "Don't we usually spend like $5?" he asks.

"It's the apples" Shelley tells him. "They cost $2 because they don't grow them here."

Home again, home again after our walk Shelley starts to fill up the tub; she wants to have a hot bath but there's no hot water. This is a fairly regular occurrence in our building. We should have hot water by this evening.

We got the word that Brian's brother died at 3 AM Monday morning. Directly after Brian's visit he basically stopped eating, they increased his morphine dosages and moved him to palliative care.

He lived every day of his life and was a very good man. Our hearts go out to anyone that knew him. He left a legacy of integrity, tolerance, family values and an enormous zest for life. Brian said that having Gene as an older brother was like winning the lottery. "How lucky can you get?"

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night

by: Dylan Thomas

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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