Time to tell him he is missed…

 Juan “Jay” Jones

No, not him. His daughter.

I alone in the universe have a photo of Jay. I can see it, he’s standing there with his lovely wife Sue, but I have 60,000 photos and can’t find this one. I hunted down the obits, all of which said the same thing. Great guy. Nice smile. Which is not the the whole story.

I’m writing this for his daughter, whom you can see up top when she was just a little kid. Can’t even find the one when she was loving red flowers at Longwood. What Jay would like best.

Anna is now an athletic beauty. Why I can’t show you her. Because there are so many perverts out there.

I remember Jay. I still miss him. I wanted him to know I was thinking of him even though he refused to talk about the death thing. I sent him clothes, T-shirts, my own Dawkins Eagles jerseys to wear as a way of knowing I was with him. I sent him a recording of a book — the Joneses had this odd kinship with Canada — and I’m pretty sure he never heard it.

“Stay Away Joe.”

He was just such a brick. And then he died. And I couldn’t even go to his funeral, because by then I was completely lame, on the couch, nothing left of my mobility.

So I wrote a poem nobody has ever acknowledged. Sorry, Jay. I do miss you. My wife got it right at least. She said this:

“Robert thought it was a letter…

Jaysong. Yes, it was a prayer…”

This next part comes from a site called The Vomitorium. A place I use when I’m mad. I was mad about Jay dying. Made me think about death and dying. Mine too. So, forgive what seems my preoccupation with my own passing. You’ll get to Jaysong soon enough. Because I’m way older than Jay ever got to be. F’ing wrong turn of the universe…

Me pretending my wife would miss me…

That place.

Brothers. All we ever were. Me 10 years older and colder. You, ten years younger and wanting my Harley. Who was colder? 

I don’t care. You can have it if you get off that awful, sterile, godawful bed and go home to Sue and Anna.

Yours,

R

Brothers. All we ever were. Me 10 years older and colder. You, ten years younger and wanting my Harley. Who was colder?  I don’t care. You can have it if you get off that awful, sterile, godawful bed and go home to Sue and Anna.


 

 



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