Palpable

I want to bring the old poet along, with his broken voice, missing teeth, and stale smell.

I want him to watch and laugh, and then I want to listen as he lowers his voice and slips into an easy cadence of words that record the day in verse that will be re-visited by history as the moment of the beginning of something great.

I named the old poet Eliot. Why should be fairly obvious.  He saw what was real. He knew nuance, birds, Lucky Strikes, and Diet Coke. He never knew I called him that.

Eliot Nay remembered Truth in the midst of shadow, told stories in lieu of facts, and was happy with just enough.

Your namesakes, little one, knew how to live. Do the same.