“Hello. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Oh. Good. Well, I’m just calling because I’m the partial owner of a very successful in-home kitchen appliance repair service. That’s right. We’ll come out with a van and some tools and make sure everything’s smooth as silk. Before I am able to give you a free estimate, however, I need to ask you just one question: Is your refrigerator running? It is? Well, then. I guess we have no further business. Thank you for your time.”
You, lithe and sun-tanned in late August, your libido and the eight dollar dye job defying your fifty six years… The summer after my tenth grade. God, it’s so trite, but I’ll never fucking forget that summer. You would’ve called me a pretentious little prick, ha ha. For a Christian camp counselor in the Adirondacks you had a foul fucking mouth.
When I drink from your mug I imagine that they let the wind take your ashes by the Atlantic. Maybe a part of you got all the way to India or Sri Lanka, fell softly on a leaf of black tea and made it somehow back to the mug. Back to me. I miss you, Peg. Rest in peace.
You know that feeling when, slow, you’re being dipped into sleep in the wake of a hurricane, as the sky turns back to blue, and a zephyr carries the first cold smells of fall to your cigarette-stuffed nose—when you fall so hard asleep that you don’t realize you’re lying on top of your hand? And then you wake up eighty minutes later with your right paw nearly feelingless (but for a dull pain)? And a question comes for which you have no answer: HOW WILL I BLOG??????????
