Tag: regret

itchy Achilles

A poem for my late father-in-law.

the father

had heard
and seen

everything the boy
had ever thought;
had done
and said –

that’s what the low-budget documentary
on Amazon Prime told him.

it was all outlined
in a big ULINE box with no lid
full of labelled duo-tangs stacked the wrong way
on the top shelf –
no less important than all the rest –
to whom the spirits kindly regressed.
the father didn’t necessarily ask for all this.
all he did was ask

and he was met with

and where maybe once he permitted himself to forget some things
based on nature,
his age,
now he knew everything.
that was the curse of the dead
and their wistless blessing

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saturday in the park

A micro-story for mature readers.

i dont know whats been happening in my life lately thirty six and divorced two kids from different men im sitting in the park on a warm saturday afternoon and the sun is beating down relentlessly hottest february on record i can feel it too sometimes you cant sometimes the skies are blue and its minus seven i tilt my sweaty brow back and forth in the light to make sure im covering every angle some tan might be nice ive always wanted to try tanning not spray tanning thats cheating but maybe in one of those ultraviolet coffins people always tell me im too pale what are they talking about ive got these rosy cheeks my ex always used to comment on my cheeks said it was my brightest part wait a minute he was an asshole thats right i always have to stop myself when im reminiscing like this i dont know whats been happening in my life lately

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let it go

A short story.

“A widower takes audacious measures to overcome his personal guilt over his partner’s death.”

“Did she make you cry
Make you break down
And shatter your illusions of love?
And is it over now?
Do you know how?
Pick up the pieces and go home.”

– “Gold Dust Woman” by Stevie Nicks

*

That night, Trevor watched The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and the next morning he called-in sick to work. Rachel Brosnahan. She looked just like her, only without the blond hair. He had watched the season from the beginning, and it was funny and painful in equal measure. And then there was the flashback, to when Midge did have blond hair, and it was like he was instantly-transported to his past. He couldn’t even pay attention to the show: he was so transfixed by this celebrity, this actress, out of his reach; a candle to his former flame. An imitation. As the show played, he reclined further in to the couch with his bottle of Wiser’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he touched his glass but he knew he was too-far-gone to reach for it now. From bottle to glass. He took a swig and let the TV carry on while his eyes darted around his living room of their own accord, looking for anything to rest on that wasn’t her. Why was he still watching? Because it was like a photograph he never took. A post he never saved. She was an idea, and then Rachel made her real again. It was coming up on ten years since Liz had died and try as he may there wasn’t any way to get around it. To relax. To take his mind off of her. Elizabeth Greer. Every show he turned to seemed to be a love story. His coffee table was strewn with artifacts from a life he knew before: trinkets from other girls that stood testament to missed opportunities; books he had stopped reading who knows how long ago, when his memory began its deadly choke-hold. That was the only way he was able to remember her now; her face, her manner: through the eyes of people paid to mock him and his affliction, as far as he was concerned. Rachel was beautiful in her own way but paled in comparison to Liz.

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