she
was a
walking eclipse...
unwholesome fruit...
a disaster waiting to happen.
that’s why
she was perfect for him.
disasters were
his favourite kind of meat...
ripe,
raw and real.
it snowed like hell that night,
and
only two people
showed up for the reading,
leaving
me and them
and a pile of empty
seats and a table covered
with stacks of books that would never get sold,
and a
contempt for it all
can never be put into words.
when
you’re not
used to Happy,
you
grab it,
squeeze it,
take it home
and hope that it
never goes away.
he smelled
of age
and the river
where he grew up
and fished as a kid...
he
smelled of hurt
and regret and the kind
of failure no amount of whiskey
could
ever remove.
he was broke...
not
out of
money broke,
but,
out of options broke.
Sarah was gone.
the kids
wanted nothing
to do with his sorry ass
and the rent was over 3 months late.
still,
it was christmas,
so
before he
did anything else,
he put
the lights out,
put up the tree,
covered
it all with gas
and sat back and watched it burn.
she died of
appendicitis
when he was nine,
and he
got shuttled
between family
and friends and back
to family again for years.
nobody dies
of appendicitis, anymore,
or sends a kid away the way they did,
so it was
no surprise to anyone
when he got the gun...
got the cash...
and
made it
straight for the coast.
that
was the last
anyone ever heard of the kid.
his name
was Jerry or
Tommy or Tom
and he never did come back.
No comments:
Post a Comment