I want to read a little poem for a wonderful fiction
writer, Andre Dubus.
Many of you, if you're studying fiction,
are reading his stories, and this is Andre Dubus the father.
And there's a story referred to in this poem, which
is called "A Father's Story."
Many of you probably know it, if you don't, it's
suggested in this poem.
This is set in Provincetown, a place
that Jane and I both frequented in some important years
of our lives.
And if you don't know that Andre Dubus-- he was struck by a car.
He was assisting a motorist who was
stuck on the side of a highway and he was struck by a hit
and run driver went by and just (TONGUE CLICK).
The driver of the broken down car was killed.
Andre lost a leg and, subsequently, his life
and his body went through a series of degradations
until he finally died.
"Matins for Andre Dubus."
We knocked on that door that after-- we knocked on your door
that afternoon while you were making love.
Apparent when you answered, zipping up.
Laughing, the joyful exertion like sunburn on your face.
Then, like a noisy pack of dogs, we hit Commercial Street,
heading for Napi's where you treated the whole roundtable
of poets to oysters and beer.
This was before you were stricken.
You could still walk.
Two knees to hold you in lovemaking and prayer
both of which you savored the way God
must savor the wholeness of contradiction.
This morning, sitting alone, I remember your story
about the father who must choose whether to do what's right
or to harbor his daughter who's done wrong.
A man of faith who must harbor himself
accepting what the world inflicts as a lesson
without expecting a cure.
Andre, I am still here, where your suffering weighs the same
as your joy and the world goes on asking
for what's impossible.
And the only choice is to give it,
as the faithful give themselves to God, to prevent
being taken by faithlessness.