My grandma returned
to tell me one last story
about how she met
the man she loved,
how it depended on
the weather, her dress,
how she looked at him
and he at her.
It was a story of
love and contingency,
the thousand factors
which added up
to this unlikely life:
but for her dress and
the clouds overhead,
I would not exist.
She sat right there,
just beside me,
like she used to
when I was a child.
I remember every detail,
but have no idea
what it all meant –
it was just a good story.
Maybe we do not need
to moralise or seek
the meaning of it all,
maybe life is best lived
listening to good stories;
stories about the weather
and what she wore
and how they fell in love.
Cosmic Heroism 
Reblogged this on The Student Becomes The Teacher and commented:
Beautiful Poetry
Thank you so much for the reblog: I am oddly fascinated by your blog – a viewpoint on Paris, in particularly, that I have never even come close to considering – and will follow with interest!
You’re welcome. I’m puzzled by your aside. Why wouldn’t I be interested in a viewpoint on Paris?
No, that’s my bad, obviously a poorly phrased response. I meant your post on Paris expresses a viewpoint I had never considered, nor would have, but for reading it, so thank you! Your take on life seems fascinating.