Perspective

Grampa Dorsey had given Ron his watch two weeks before he died. The old man had been wearing an afghan across his knees; orange, brown and yellow. Ron had let his eyes chase the diamonds around the small blanket, smelling pipe and the ligament his Grampa used for his sore joints. Then the old man had rubbed Ron’s head, told him he was a good boy. When Ron looked up at him, he said,“I want you to have this watch. I worked a long time to buy it. You understand the value of my past, Ron. You are a good, good boy.”
Ron’s mother protested the day they waked Grampa, saying the gift was simply too valuable for a child of Ron’s age. She made a scene in the room that smelled so heavily of flower death. The family all tut-tutted her in her snit, chalking it up to more of her spoiled behavior. They sucked on the Jordan’s Almonds and took the expensive prayer cards and reminisced over the patched together Polaroid poster board gallery. This-is-your-life style, Grampa would have said. Or at least Ron thought so.
But Ron’s father, Herb had stuck up for his son, insisting he keep the watch. Many times Herb would come home from his 12 hour shift to find Ron with Grampa Dorsey. They would be laughing or watching the old black and white TV that the old man refused to upgrade to color. Their two voices were the epitome of companionship and Herb knew this ate at Glenda, his wife. She was kind, yes, to take in Grampa, but secretly in her heart, it was due to obligation and greed.
Grampa had done well for himself. He had set up carefully for his retirement, and had accounts for all his children, including his third daughter Glenda. He never intended to live with any of them. But his young wife, Shelly died suddenly and he could no longer stay at home. His oldest son, Billy travelled too much and did not have a wife. Marcie and Tracy both refused to get involved. Their lives could not be interrupted. It fell to baby Glenda.
Glenda jumped at the chance initially, thinking she had finally arrived at her chance to win daddy’s love. But Grampa was resentful and had never particularly enjoyed his last child. He spurned her attempts to spend time with him, often telling her to take her “fat ass out to the garage” to clean his car. He seemed to sense her overwhelming desire for sloth and it irked him. He did grow to like living in her house though and in the end left her money above the other children to pay off her mortgage.
The watch was Ron’s most prized position. He would lie in bed, remembering his grandfather, and all his stories and adventures. The hands would take their tick-tocking steps around the face of the clock and Ron was the glad audience pressing his ear to listen. It slid up and down his arm, and would never sit fixed on his wrist while it still ticked. But it helped him feel confident. He was a man when he wore it.

Witness Protection

08/22/2020 / Evelyn

You know

Not every poem

Has to be perfect who

Am I kidding I have to be

The best

Dead and Gone

08/21/2020 / Evelyn

You shy away from prose now. So much to do, so little time. And what a tired line that is, limping into the brain area, the waiting room for rationalization station.

You stare at your phone, you smoke, you shift your obsessions from this to that. A person, a subject, true facts, made a pact that somehow explanation would redeem you.

You say ‘I’m still filling the hole’. It just never will fill.

But still, there is happiness, day by day is fine, by the way. It’s not the rush of the mess up, it’s the stress of money and…purpose.

White girl in the first world; how did you find a way to make a decent living and still be drowning most of the time.

Robbing that cunt Peter to pay that twat Paul. You don’t equate money with success; how could you? If you did, you’d fail.

Purpose. On purpose, you want to make a change. Which is naive. Which is essential.

As for me, I do not think I’ve lost something. Then how do I explain…this?

I don’t. You don’t. Snooze button till take out time. Final swig then brew again. Don’t dream and don’t get better.

Never quit and die for your reward just like your father. His booze, your food, your weed, your isolation.

It’s enough to just be, you know. Each trauma doesn’t have to snuff it out; illness manifest to shove it back into reasons why.

(And the big lie.) I wish for forgiveness and also demand it.

There is no cliff to jump from to become a beautiful postcard. But still, you will be dead and gone.