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
Image by Oskars Sylwan, licensed via Unsplash. Image cropped. Filter added.
