First of all, nobody gets eaten by a bear in this story. Nor does a tree fall on anybody. That’s not what this story is about. And I apologize for changing the ending. This story wasn’t easy to tell.
We left early that morning to cut firewood, driving north on a Forest Service road until we hit the burn scar. My brother-in-law, Daryl, sat on the passenger side of my pickup, while his son, Walden, was cramped in the back. I parked in the middle of an aspen grove and Daryl hopped out. He lifted his chainsaw from the bed, yanked the cord, and started it midstride. The chainsaw made a rup, rup, rup noise.
Mr. Kwong did not count himself among the retired men for whom idleness bred new hobbies, who got up religiously for sunrise tai chi at the park or cultivated a collection of bonsai.
In the shadow of a cedar tree that gave you / sleep, one summer, one summer when all responsibilities / seemed to die (or so you dreamed)—water lilies / in a nearby pond, arms languishing at your side. . . .
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