Monday, November 16, 2015

orange roobois

My childhood resumed itself after the break of '11. That's when the friends showed up, the certain kind of friends, the foxes. Opportunism and sly, light footing.

We drank a bottle of Jack Daniels at a sushi restaurant on Main Street. One of the chefs got upset. We thought it was byob. Only beer and wine. Fine.

Then we got trashed at one establishment or another and we were like a brush fire. Everything wanted to be in our path. They kept stepping up to burn. It didn't amount to much but still, ashes rarely do. And they don't tell you that about fires, that the things they burn often seek the flames.

Which reminds me, we still have to do something with my father's ashes.

And he, my dad, wrote existential pieces in college.

And me, my face is transitioning into that of a man. The body knows where we must go, before we do. That was it --

Drawing all these lessons from my dad's physical deterioration and but what about my own. Gradual, slow, I know, I know. Knock on wood. I know.

I slipped out of my shoes at the beach today and thought of my dad untying shoes. He wouldn't just slip out of them, he would be disciplined and untie them. So that's what I did.

Then I thought of him tying the laces of my hockey skates. And he'd get em pretty tight. And I'd get on that ice and have the time of my life.