Endurance

Where you die, I will die,

and there I will be buried.

—Ruth 1:17

There are not enough words for

love. Maybe in other languages

but certainly not in English—

which is obviously the case

since we’ve co-opted every

variant of amour.

Fervour and enchantment?

Riffed from Latin class.

Eros from the

god of Acropolis.

A thesaurus isn’t needed

when you mean it. Hear it in

the patience of another

diaper change. I wipe although

we’ve never had a baby.

Jacob waited 14 years

for Rachel. A pair of perfect

cycles while he toiled—

his vineyard gone to raisin

in the wind.

Wine is best when aged in

casks of oak. Not because the

grapes have been matured,

but the tree which gave its wood

before the seeding.

On the day of my final call

to Willow Acres, I’ll read

you the story of Ruth.

A quilt will shroud your

shoulders while I espouse

her enduring voice.

I’ll croon in acapella, lyrics

that I’ve conjured off the cuff.

The tap of my

Sorrentos on the tiles

a timpani; my mother’s

cherished napkin used to

swab your drooling mouth—

folded like the

origami heart I tried to

forge, mutating to a

hat she chose to bear

when all her tresses

became a carpet for the floor.

Andreas Gripp

December 16, 2025

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