the sweetest boy in the world

I had a large fresh round wound on the back of my hand. My son looked down at it and said:

"Daddy has booboo on his hand. Does booboo hurt daddy?"

I looked down at him and replied, "Yes, it hurts"

He looked at me with the saddest eyes and said "It hurts me too"

portraits of the dead part 2

Mac tried to be humble when I asked about the room of golf trophies at the back of the house.

"Awe, I just had good partners, is all" he barked.

The only bragging he wanted to do last night was about his family--his daughter out in Vegas, his son in Kentucky. He told me of the university he attended many years ago. He confided in me that it was really a university for poor people. "Tuition free" he said as he made a swiping motion in the air to nail home his point. He did that kind of thing alot.

A few loud gunshots exploded somewhere in the near-distance outside the window behind him. Mac didn't even jump--not even a twitch of recognition from the tattered armchair. I guess all his nerves were gone. He was 76 and looked every day of 110. I'd bet he had smoked a pack a day for at least 60 years. And what's a pack of cigarettes without a suitcase of beer?

I sat up in my seat and listened as he rambled on about days and people gone by. I wasn't pretending to be interested. I really was. I had realized at some point during the night that Mac was the oldest person I had spoken with in some time. My grandparents were dead and my parents were still another 20 years and a million truckloads of vices away from reaching Mac's time.

I knew I was making an old man's night. I didn't mind obliging. I know my days of reciting old stories in a dusty old house will be here sooner than later.

On the road to nowhere.

It begins with the little things. Can't find the keys. The power company never received the bill. I could have sworn I had a twenty in my wallet. Just the normal parts of a busy life.

Then, as time goes on, the little things get more annoying. The car isn't where I parked it. It isn't even the car I thought I'd driven to the grocery store; it's the truck. Was that light I just went through red or green? Did I say goodbye to my wife this morning?

Sooner, rather than later, the annoyed feelings turn to exasperation. What is his last name? I know I know it. If I can just dig deep enough through the dead meat of my brain, I know it's there. How did I end up in the bathroom? Why did I come in here? My wife argues emphatically that I discussed paying the tuition with her but I can't remember ever talking about it. In fact, it's the first time I've heard of it. It seems I can't get anything accomplished. When is my son's birthday? How old is he? How old am I?

Exasperation becomes confusion and fear. What day is it? What year? What did I do today? Where are the kids? They don't live here anymore?

Then fear gives way to happiness. It feels good. Nothing can touch me here. I'm floating. White paper. White paper.

the only thing that kills them

When we threw the bucket of barbie dolls into the pool, we weren't prepared for what would happen next.
The naked plastic barbies expanded to lifesize cheerleaders and began clawing, biting, pulling hair,
and tearing each other to pieces.

I turned and saw my sister and my son standing on the cement at the edge of the pool. She bent and whispered something into my son's ear, smiled broadly, and jumped into the water - right in the middle of the death-fight. I quickly ran to try to pull the green plastic cover over the top of the pool to mask the sight from our eyes.

Along the edges, where the cover did not reach, we saw the water turn from light blue to black red.

I knelt in front of my son and asked him what my sister had said to him.

He stared blankly ahead and flatly uttered "She said it looked like fun."