Gravy
No other word
will do. For that’s what it was. Gravy.
Gravy, these
past ten years.
Alive, sober, working, loving, and
being loved
by a good woman. Eleven years
ago he was
told he had six months to live
at the rate
he was going. And he was going
nowhere but
down. So he changed his ways
somehow. He
quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it
was all gravy, every minute
of it, up to
and including when he was told about,
well, some
things that were breaking down and
building up
inside his head. “Don’t weep for me,”
he said to
his friends. “I’m a lucky man.
I’ve had ten
years longer than I or anyone
expected.
Pure Gravy. And don’t forget it.”
--Raymond Carver
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