Ever Again

I heard the “thuck” as the Proud Boy

smacked my head with a baseball bat

–his staff of righteousness–as if he

were playing cleanup for the St. Louis

Cardinals.

I felt a brief flash of pain, followed by

a metallic taste on my tongue and an

acrid odor in my nostrils.  Was I dying?

I wondered.

“Goddamn faggot,” he cursed me and

then my mother, for giving birth to such

a puke.  I’m certain that He delivered

numerous subsequent blows but I felt

nothing–ever again.

Mom, You’re Prettier than Lucy

Lucille Ball was our household icon. She

was pretty and funny and clever; she was

everywhere: on TV, in the movies, the

newspapers and so on.  We couldn’t get

enough of her.

As a redhead myself I naturally gravitated

toward Lucy. In fact, I thought wistfully that

a marriage between Lucy and popular

comedian Red Skelton, another redhead,

would produce the ideal parents.  I was

eight years old.

So one night, when we were in the basement,

watching television, Mom tossed me the

latest TV Guide, which featured on its

cover a photo of Lucille Ball. “She’s pretty,

isn’t she?” she asked me. i surveyed the

photo critically, then issued my opinion.

“Mom, you’re prettier than Lucy,” I said quite

honestly. She looked up from her crocheting,

startled.  “Me?” she squeaked, unbelievingly.

“Sure,” I reiterated determinedly, “you’re lots

prettier than Lucy.” I glanced at her,

wondering why she was so surprised. “Do you

really mean that?” she asked softly. I told her

I did.  I’d no idea I had rendered such a

profound compliment.

I guess it was a combination of things that made

me feel that way: a son’s love, a positive, nurturing

role model, and she was, in fact, quite pretty. Mom

said nothing more, but looked back down at her

needlework, a little smile playing on her lips.

Quicksilver

I knew that this world wasn’t for keeps.

In youth, I clutched

to my breast many precious things–fresh

turned soil; newborn

kittens, the soft hand of my dear wife.

In middle age I

beheld objects I treasured–a vivid yellow

field of corn, in

full flower; drops of dew clinging to

gossamer wisps

of silk, strung through a copse and glittering

in the morning

sunlight. my daughter dressed for Prom.

With age I know

things I will always keep close–the strength of

righteous liberty;

love of country and of God; and the knowledge

that life is but

ephemeral, and will soon pass like quicksilver

through my fingers.