Thanks for playing. Here’s your consolation prize:
a mountain capped with fog, the sun behind
throwing light circumspectly on a lake, the way
a painter lights a lovely face from out
of frame. I’m sorry that you didn’t win, but here’s
your daughter’s voice at eight floating on breath
as softly as a leaf drifts down a sleepy creek.
And take this memory: your father’s pipe
left by his chair, the cherry bowl burned black, the wood
worn thin beneath his fingertips. You did
not win first-place or runner-up or even third.
Few do; few can. The exit lights are lit.
So take these prizes with you and go home. Grow old.
From time to time take out these things and be consoled.
~ Benjamin Myers
