Wednesday, September 15, 2010



I stopped pushing salvation on inner city streets after my husband’s funeral.
Maples lining the road home reminded me of the kimono, and our baby;
anniversary gifts from Tent.

Rubin changed clothes as soon as we got home from Sunday school: toreror,
mariachi, prime ballerina.  It was difficult to keep a straight face in the middle
of an argument with a little cross-dresser playing in front of you.

In the beginning of autumn, that’s when he started collecting the feathers.  My
baby, fourteen, lifeless.  He found the first one outside a mud wrestling bar and
grill.  It had the Lords Prayer written on the feather.  Soon enough, they were
coming from all around the world.  He loved his collection.  I gave each one of
those bullies a feather.  I want to forgive but…

Tent was very close to his son, closer than the rope wrapped around his neck.
The impact of losing his son was devastating.  After the funeral I couldn’t wait;
I needed to look in the mirror, put on the kimono, cover my arms with the red
yellow leaves of the sash, and hide the teeth marks.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blog Archive