Parting Gifts

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