--YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT A DESPERATE PERSON WILL SAY
…I’m headed to Portland in a bit for a weekend of fun and frivolity. Actually, it will mostly be a weekend of stress and laughter. It’s Fantasy Football Draft time and as silly as it sounds, there’s a ton of pressure the entire Saturday. I’m going to try to stay sober and not make any bone-head moves as I’ve done every year for the past four years.
Wish me luck, please.
…I wrote this the other day, though I don’t know what motivated it:
This pen in my hand
feels like a rusty scalpel,
heavy as a stone sword,
and I’m a bit woozy on nostalgia
thinking about that night
the moon let us down so terrifically,
bloody shadows staining the road forever.
Still I sign anyway, quickly,
remembering Ruby’s ruby-red slippers,
the ones with the flaky Chiclet chips,
her dressed as Dorothy for Halloween,
clicking the heels of her shoes three times,
saying, “There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home,”
before we headed out for the evening.
I had thought—
a car purchase,
a wedding dress and a honeymoon cruise—
any of these would get my signature
instead of a death certificate.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the man of authority says again,
skirting my eyes as he attempt to
take the forms from my fingers.
“Mr. _____,” the man of authority says,
soft and frail,
while I hold tight to the edge of a page,
a toddler in a tantrum,
him not knowing I’m afraid to let go
the way I had let released
Ruby’s hand that Halloween night just day ago.
“Mr. _____, please,” he says.
“Please,” he says, “don’t you think this has been
difficult enough already?”