Always see the world through rose-colored glasses and
The classy lady always orders the cosmopolitan
I’ve always preferred Miller light
But I’ll raise my Cosmo up in a salute to him
Always hide your Butterfinger wrappers in the fire—
“That’s where Grammie won’t find them”
A man of his stature, success
Shouldn’t have to keep such secrets from his Babe
We know she’s only looking out for him
But nothing will keep him from the simple pleasures life has to offer
Not even his Babe
When we were young he told us
Of the Fuckawee Indian tribe that settled Northern Michigan
And how, maybe, just maybe
If we yelled loud enough
They would peek out at us from behind the thick foliage
After dinner he’d take us kids on his evening cocktail cruise
(Once again hiding from Babe)
With a Gerrity mixed drink in his hand
(He wasn’t allowed ice cream, or ***** and Kahlua)
We’d cruise by the house and call out
To the tribe that settled our sacred land and
To our shocked parents on the distant shore line
“Where the Fuckawee?”
How to drive a boat and How to touch the world and
How to love unconditionally and How to enjoy every moment
How to stand up for what you believe and How to have fun doing it
How to follow the rules, and more importantly How to break them
Looking up and down the rows and rows of
White folding chairs
Watching these salty lessons dribble down the faces of those he touched
The young, the old
The Brazilian, the English who always asked for the Irishman's list
The family, the friends, and those who admired from a far
We come together, here
To celebrate all we learned from him
How to work to the top from the bottom
How to touch the lives of so many
and
Most importantly,
How to fill your heart with love for
The Luckiest Family in the World
That I have around me now,
Thanks to the Luckiest Man in the World
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 5:14 PM UTC
The foliage on the western shore swallows the last radiant sliver of golden sun.
The pungent scent of gasoline reaches my nose and the boat is back in gear, already idling, as he titters anxiously behind the wheel.
“The sunset’s over, are you ready to head back?”
I’m not. Not yet.
I close my eyes and exhale the last drag of my cigarette. Smoke billows out through my slightly parted lips and into the fresh air that engulfs us.
It spreads
infinitely
in front of my eyes, blending into the air around us until it has become one with the atmosphere.
I open my eyes.
Turning my head to the right, I glance out at the open water that surrounds our tiny boat, stretching far and wide encircling us.
I know that he is ready to leave. He opens his mouth to ask me again, but before he can I reach out and press a finger to his warm lips, silencing him.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable, and turns his face from mine. My hand gently drags across his skin as his head revolves on his muscular neck and he allows my fingers to rest peacefully on his flushed cheek,
skin to skin,
me to him.
I drop my hand back to my side and his handsome features reveal a brief moment of relief.
“I suppose we can go now”
I take a reluctant last look at the trees, swaying gently in the June breeze, blissfully unaware that they’ve stolen yet another day from this Indian summer.
He begins to turn the boat, heading the bow back to the eastern shore. Our small cottage peaks out through the thick trees and from this distance it looks like a shy little dollhouse, waiting for us to return and play.
We ride back in silence. Our boat splashes through the water and icy droplets leap out of the lake and sting my face. They are refreshing and rejuvenating. They are replenishing.
I stretch and smile; I look at his face. It is like stone, so focused on the shoreline ahead so that my gaze goes unnoticed.
And then there are words,
dancing in my stomach,
infesting my windpipe,
filling my mouth, tasting so sweet.
I clench my teeth together and fight to keep the truth behind them.
My hair rustles in the wind.
I want to stand on the tallest tower,
the deepest canyon and the vastest desert;
and I want to yell until everyone has heard
and understands.
But I know that he must learn for himself; though my tongue itches to share, to save.
My hand finds him again and grips his wrist tightly.
I wish my hands could teach him what they’ve know
That my memories, my understanding and my acceptance of the truth could travel out of the pores in my skin and into his.
I want the truth to infect him, to spread through him like wild fire.
Then he too will he understand
All That the World Has to Offer.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 9:23 PM UTC