Rip Van Winkle Evening

It was a Rip Van Winkle summer evening when I watched my family disassemble.

The wind and rain beat against the dining room patio windows, intentionally showcasing a lone wild turkey in the pasture beyond.

We ate and drank in a Last Supper tableau, with a disregard for sacred subjects that had not been seen before and never would again.

We plotted our own gravesites with a handwritten map, having never cared before, living in our vibrant lives, caught up in a timeless existence.

But tonight we laughed and drank Polish whiskey, toasting ourselves on survival, jokingly acknowledging in unspoken talk that the years behind were now more than what would be ahead.

We hugged each other, took a picture, and saluted our current longevity, forever together, telling secrets and jokes eternally, united for some any day in another Rip Van Winkle gathering on the hill.