Who offered 6-year-old-me deals of a toothbrush or a paddle,
(I took the paddle).
Who would call to say “be there in ten,”
And rang again in forty-five.
Who told me to stop trying to sneak out
And just use the front door.

Who, on every spontaneous trip to Barcelona or Belize
would add another nameless instrument to the stage
of our living room, with nameless band mates to follow,
and would drag me from bed at 2 AM on a Monday
and hand me a guitar.

Who I learned to play guitar for, so I could send to her my
“Wish You Were Here” and she could listen from wherever
her 1970s camper and wanderlust heart had taken her.

Who gave advice of “If you’re gunna be stupid, ya gotta be tough.”

Who yelled at Ashlyn and me the first time she caught
us with a joint- “What the hell are you doing? Don’t you share?”

Who, after I invented master plans of how to get rid of
the smell of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, how to keep
Troy from sleeping in her bed and Jordan from drinking her Captain
And Jeremiah from eating all the food she left me,
always returned from her trips and knew, within minutes,
that her house had been our playground

Who would simply ask, “have fun?”

Who mistook adolescent angst and the silence of my Nirvana daze
for a resentment of struggles past, and
Who thought I felt better off without her around.

Who may have been right,
but was probably wrong.

Dear, mom
Since you've been gone....
So much has happend in this cruel world.
The depression eats away at me every day.
My anxiety worsened.
But there also good things that have happend.
I'm falling in love.
For real this time mom, I wish you were here to meet him.
I'll be graduating in less than a month.
All I've ever wanted was to make you happy.
So since you've been gone I have thought about you every day.
I love you.

Sincerely your daughter,
Ashlyn

A reading from the book of Ashlyn, daughter of Mark.

In the name of my Father
(Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name):
Ritual calls a lighter to a cigarette
It pulls the calloused flesh of its thumb over the metal striker
Igniting the air it breathes, exciting a dull glow
A puff of recognition lays down on the exhale
Soon there will be ashes. It settles like smoke.

When the smoke settles
The Room is void.
The walls move in and
Swallow him holy, moving in
Relentless rythmic contraction
A chorus of prayer, annointing the sick
Let us paint crosses in the ashtray.

"Ahhhhh-men."

coughing

In the name of the daughter:
He tries to avoid the ritual,
But the chants persist
He is a sinner.
Only blood can cleanse him
He partakes

May the Spirit be with you.
"And also with you."
We lift our glasses to the Lord.
"It is right to give Him thanks and praise."

The room goes silent.
Observation of prayer.

In the name of the Holy Spirit:
The blood of Christ compels a drink
The spirit makes my father new
He is no longer man.
Now, he is exorcised by the spirit.
Praise be to God in his slurred speech
And peace to this person on earth
His sunken eyes. His swollen belly.
God, is he your Mary?
Is this your beautiful creation? Your masterful plan?
God, am I your son? I think so.
I stretched my arms out to you.
It seems you left me hanging.
You, the only father who has ever forsaken me. Why?

It's strange the way I am
My name is always different to others
Ash, Ashlyn, Lyn.
I've been called other names, too.
******, Crazy, Insane, Wreck
Wrong, Right, Girl.
I mean..they're not wrong.
But I have a name you know.