62 The Meadow Plastic Gravestones Richard Baldo Haphazard stacks of bottles, recently delivered by taxi, already emptied, at the condo on the lake with its elaborate door, what should have been a successful life. Fingerprints smeared the wall with shit. By the front window, lowering himself between the bottles, he stares out at the water, An eagle glides over the shallows hunting the fish at home there. There are no children here, only bottles that clatter as they fall. Hey Doc, let me get you out of here, I said. Mt. Tallac’s snowcross stares down on us. I’m doing what I want to do, he said and asked me to leave, the room echoed funerial. I assume all the bottles were carried out two months later when he finalized his marriage to the drink, and gave his life to his promise, complete.
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