like a child singing on a boxcar to auschwitz / hopesick
ryan.
it was a beautiful afternoon. houdini was
buried a few plots away. the
dead seemed to be resting so peacefully, even the process of decay
seemed beautiful. trees sprout from souls like seeds. sunlight like
an
amber static on a forgotten channel. in any direction the lonely,
stoic compass could point, there were graves. death seemed so sweet
and inviting. my mom began to cry and i asked her not to. she asked
me
why and i said it made me sad to see her sad. she said he was always
with her and she felt him inside her so i asked why she was upset and
she said she still thought of him everyday and missed him. grandpa
Richie she said he’d be so proud of me, that he would of been such
a
great grandpa and began to cry again. please i begged. it hurt to see
her cry. she wasn’t supposed to. she cried for a minute or two and
i
watched her cry and everything looked less beautiful but in
hindsight,
that’s where the beauty lay. the moment seems so fragile, i was
afraid
if i reached for it, it would shatter or tear like the wings of a
moth
forever searching for an august lantern. we walked back to the car
and
that’s where the memory fades into obscurity, as if a child was
playing with the dial and the song on the radio slowly crackles and
disappears molecule by crying fucking molecule. fades into obscurity,
perhaps tucked under my cerebellum like a fleshly blanket. i
don’t
remember what we were wearing, where we came from or where we were
going. in hindsight, i suppose it was a conversation between two
ghosts, three if you include the spineless flower she rested on the
grave.
