The Native Iowan

A pleasant life. Is all he wanted. It was not to be. Station and birth had plotted against. A status quo. The mores of the day. Even the laws. Forbade such a thing. As a pleasant life. A free life. Where a man’s toils were his own. It was not to be. A pleasant life.

A pleasant life. Is what she’d had. Over 85 years. A husband. Two Sons. A grandchild. A lifetime. All buried. All gone. The last of a generation. None left. No peers to repair her faulty memory. Her bible held each obituary. Photos of them all. The sum total. Of what she remembered. A pleasant life.

A pleasant life. Is what she fled. The suburban slow death. None could understand. Even the boys. Especially the boys. Her incremental demise. Like a cancer. Patient. Insidious. Would have destroyed them. All. She fled. Traveling. Hiding. From the past. Crewing yachts in the Pacific. Now. Remembering the family. So long ago. A pleasant life.

A pleasant life. Despite the painful death. The traditional family filled “last days”. Eased much of the pain. Offered enjoyment and entertainment. So many small children. Progeny of his loins. All. Joyful and sorrowful. The selfish urge. The emotional wanting. The loss. Made it easier. The final days. With his family. Enjoying. A pleasant life.

A pleasant life. Of sorts. Her ancient eyes. Twinkle and smile. In her child’s face. War ravaged life. The family. Still alive. Intact. UNICEF food. Adequate. Some days. There’s been worse. Much worse. Refugees. Fleeing death. Struggling to survive. The camp. A neutral boarder. Armed guards. Much safer. Offers security. Offers more. A pleasant life.

A pleasant life. Through a windowpane. Steaming plates of food. Bottles of bubbling beverages. Smiling diners. Never notice. His intense face. Following the food. To the table. To the fork. To the mouth. Such quantities. Each night he watches. Ears burning with cold. Stomach grumbling with emptiness. Each night he watches. Longingly. A pleasant life.

A pleasant life. Just the two brothers. Hermits of a sort. Farming 800 acres. Each summer. 16-hour days. Winters were different. Little to do. They built wooden clocks. No two alike. 47 clocks. Over 42 years. Some big. Some small. The house filled. Several in the barn. A lifetime. Of clocks. A pleasant life.

A pleasant life. Well most of it. So much over rated. The big-time job. The big-time family. The car. Used to get a buzz. From the job. In the end. Only ulcers. She used to turn him on. The kids. Made him smile. It all got too hard. The bottle. Offered solace. A pleasant life.