My grandma returned

to tell me one last story

about how she met

the man she loved,

how it depended on

the weather, her dress,

how she looked at him

and he at her.

 

It was a story of

love and contingency,

the thousand factors

which added up

to this unlikely life:

but for her dress and

the clouds overhead,

I would not exist.

 

She sat right there,

just beside me,

like she used to

when I was a child.

I remember every detail,

but have no idea

what it all meant –

it was just a good story.

 

Maybe we do not need

to moralise or seek

the meaning of it all,

maybe life is best lived

listening to good stories;

stories about the weather

and what she wore

and how they fell in love.