Questions

What about them?
 

I have a few.

 

Doesn’t everyone?

 

Yes. That’s part of the reason why I like them—how human they are, how curious.

 

There are other reasons to like questions?

 

Sure. I also like how they are infinite and how kids seem to understand that much better than adults—that there is never truly an answer. You can never satisfy “why?”  There is something sublime in that.

 

Anything else?

 

How they desire to have something to accompany them, even if it is just a simple yes or no. They invite relationships. They can open a person up.

 

You’re a romantic aren’t you?

 

That’s beside the point.

 

What if someone refuses or can’t answer?

 

Maybe that itself is an answer.

Maybe the question has already been answered.

Maybe the answer isn’t important, just the question.

 

Do you have an answer to everything?

 

No and I never will. Life is punctuated by one gigantic question mark.

 

You mean death? You are making life a sentence metaphor?

 

I guess so. I think it works, too. But I don’t think life is about pursuing just that particular question. It’s one you can spend a lifetime asking, though.

 

Do you believe in life after death?

 

That is beside point.

 

What is the point then?

 

I don’t know. Like I said, I have a few questions.

 

Next week I’ll be thinking about secrets.

 

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Answer a question, a hard one, with a poem.

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What Would It Be Like

For dinner a gourmet hamburger and fries

at the kitchen table facing the wall.

 

Knowing where all the remotes

to the television are, and my shoes

when the garbage is finally full

after weeks, maybe months.

Ties and v-neck sweaters and slacks

all without stains or wrinkles.

A new book every week.

Some different poem

about what it would be like

to have a family.