for Peggy Hopkins

At a bar called The Bitter End
we toasted irony
because there was nothing bitter about her,
because around her there were nothing but beginnings.
Beginnings to long weekends with an open invitation for Fridays and Mondays to tag along,
beginnings to Mardi Gras parades
that threaded like gold and purple and green beads through New Orleans for blocks,
beginnings of grandchildren’s lives and family feasts
where each bite was sweet as dessert,
beginnings of loyal friendships and love affairs meant to be,
of long sips of fine liquor, of short sips of cheap liquor,
of laughter at good jokes and
hips swaying to weeknight trumpets, handkerchiefs and napkins in the air.
She was the kind of woman
who would turn a lifeboat into a celebration,
who would float above the flood waters and marvel at
the sights seen from new heights, smile on her face.
She was the kind of woman
who constantly rebuilt,
who taught us about foundations.
She was a woman who liked to go out on a Saturday night,
no irony there,
we shouldn’t be surprised at that.

© Bryan Borland