One anniversary, my parents took a trip
to tour their beginnings:
The church that had wed them was now an apartment,
but had honestly faired better than
the honeymoon hotel
—a smoking ruin—
or the Crystal Caves—
caved in.
One year, a wagon load of hay
sold to horse farmers from Kentucky
burnt to the boards 3 miles out the gate.
And there was Mount St Helen’s—
just sharing a date—
their calamiversary, they joked.
A lot of butterfly-stirred typhoons
are bound to share dates over 49 years.
Dad spent their 49th in the hospital,
but he’s not really up to joking around.
ALS takes the smile out, you know?
Still, Mom says she hopes
against all reason
for fifty.
