Something to my grandfather, the funny Italian
He is quickly sliding downhill
his plane is spiraling and he is headed for the end
Your final room is painted a vomitous mauve reminiscent of Sam's hot-dog upchuck on my 6th birthday.
All over the cake at Elitch Gardens. You know you're really best friends when you don't even get mad about the cake.
Your mattress is small and uncomfortable and plastic. They have an ugly, plasticky purple comforter on it that other tenants, now dead, have slept in before. Your sheets are coarse, medical-grade, and they've been washed, re-washed and laundered to the point of pills.
Your furniture is senseless: two night stands side-by-side too far from the bed. A cumbersome wardrobe with not enough hanging space. A low dresser for the television that hasn't arrived.
The standard bulletin board shows many holes from previous tenants' reminders and announcements. There are shadows where the dead used to save the date.
The doors in your hall are decorated with kindergarten-style paper-plate mailboxes. Yours is bare. The light above your doorway is dim compared to the rest. Babs, the nurse, says "Welcome Home" as though you've just been away for awhile.
You believe you are on lockdown, and I am smuggling you supplies. You eat and your head clears. You go to your new room and as you leave again, you try to lock the door. This is a new place and the locks are only in the air.
I go to your old place and try to look through your old things. You don't have many. We haven't done much here. I'm sorry. You have some pictures on the wall, and I take those. You have a snowman and a red tablecloth. You have a CD player and Frank Sinatra. You never could figure out how to make the damned thing play.
There is a box of photos, from so many years ago. I had a gap in my teeth back then, and you always looked like you had just pulled a fast one. You probably had.
There is a picture of you with your golf group. You are in the center of a dozen guys, and you are somehow smaller than them. You were so tall, I never realized that you were everybody's little brother. Everyone was ready to take care of you, no matter what. And you always wanted to take care of them instead.
There has never been a person who met you and didn't fall in love. Do you know that? Do you know how much love you have created in your life?
Do you know that you could always make me laugh? I've never met a funnier guy. I never will.
I decorate and try to hide the bleakness of this place.
You come back to your room, with your things now. You have been fed, and you don't have a thing to worry about. Franky is singing his songs, and your family is smiling on you from every frame. You decide to pay your wife a visit down the hall. You don't have to put on a coat, turn off the lights or lock the door. You smile and say, "I think this is going to be neat!"
My heart jumps, and I know you're going to be okay. I'm glad you don't have to be alone tonight. I'm glad you can finally start to enjoy your life.
his plane is spiraling and he is headed for the end
Your final room is painted a vomitous mauve reminiscent of Sam's hot-dog upchuck on my 6th birthday.
All over the cake at Elitch Gardens. You know you're really best friends when you don't even get mad about the cake.
Your mattress is small and uncomfortable and plastic. They have an ugly, plasticky purple comforter on it that other tenants, now dead, have slept in before. Your sheets are coarse, medical-grade, and they've been washed, re-washed and laundered to the point of pills.
Your furniture is senseless: two night stands side-by-side too far from the bed. A cumbersome wardrobe with not enough hanging space. A low dresser for the television that hasn't arrived.
The standard bulletin board shows many holes from previous tenants' reminders and announcements. There are shadows where the dead used to save the date.
The doors in your hall are decorated with kindergarten-style paper-plate mailboxes. Yours is bare. The light above your doorway is dim compared to the rest. Babs, the nurse, says "Welcome Home" as though you've just been away for awhile.
You believe you are on lockdown, and I am smuggling you supplies. You eat and your head clears. You go to your new room and as you leave again, you try to lock the door. This is a new place and the locks are only in the air.
I go to your old place and try to look through your old things. You don't have many. We haven't done much here. I'm sorry. You have some pictures on the wall, and I take those. You have a snowman and a red tablecloth. You have a CD player and Frank Sinatra. You never could figure out how to make the damned thing play.
There is a box of photos, from so many years ago. I had a gap in my teeth back then, and you always looked like you had just pulled a fast one. You probably had.
There is a picture of you with your golf group. You are in the center of a dozen guys, and you are somehow smaller than them. You were so tall, I never realized that you were everybody's little brother. Everyone was ready to take care of you, no matter what. And you always wanted to take care of them instead.
There has never been a person who met you and didn't fall in love. Do you know that? Do you know how much love you have created in your life?
Do you know that you could always make me laugh? I've never met a funnier guy. I never will.
I decorate and try to hide the bleakness of this place.
You come back to your room, with your things now. You have been fed, and you don't have a thing to worry about. Franky is singing his songs, and your family is smiling on you from every frame. You decide to pay your wife a visit down the hall. You don't have to put on a coat, turn off the lights or lock the door. You smile and say, "I think this is going to be neat!"
My heart jumps, and I know you're going to be okay. I'm glad you don't have to be alone tonight. I'm glad you can finally start to enjoy your life.