Love After 50

Love after 50 doesn’t make the pop charts. It’s too absurd. Absurd as ice cubes settling in a glass when one pours hot coffee over them, shedding their sharp edges. Absurd as the day-time ghost of one’s breath on a cold morning. Absurd as the smell of soil after a rain— why should mere dirt outdo all other odors? Absurd as grinding steel on a wobbly bench grinder with a corroding belt, that hair of sparks, the pleasant way they prickle against the skin.