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From time to time David Fischer visits
the grave of a high school friend
who died at age sixteen in a
one-car crash on a highway.
The dates of the boy’s birth
and death—the months, the days,
the years—are carved in stone.
The boy’s parents long outlived him,
but both now rest in a grave beside that
of Fischer’s friend, their first-born child.
On the parents’ marker the years of
their respective lives are stated,
as well as the month, the day,
and the year that they were wed.
Counting on his fingers,
Fischer does the math.
Eight months, two weeks, one day.
The time has passed for asking
how the author who dictated dates
to a stonecutter would have classified
his story. Shall we think of it as
poetry? a mystery? or romance?
Or will we leave it lightly labeled in
a larger genre called non-fiction?
♦
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