The ground sparkled like a Twilight vampire before you had yelled, “are you serious?” opening night, making the entire theater laugh. Edwardian snow felt like the kind of shit you’d pull in the next life. Your uncle with the weird cough drop obsession slipped, like the time you tried roller blades and looked like a disco-drenched newborn giraffe that random Tuesday we were bored. Which got me thinking about our late night DDRMax dance-offs in that sweaty old town arcade where you were more coordinated off wheels. You still hold the record, by the way. Remember afterwards when we got ice cream and he pronounced it “dulch” de leche, so you asked for three more samples just to entertain me? The deacon was animated, her hands flying everywhere like the time I got that speeding ticket and framed it because we were rocking out to “Hey Ya”, evident of our outstretched spirit fingers. It’s still hanging above my bed. The folding chairs embedded in rows by your casket were the same kind you waltzed with at your brother’s wedding because you wanted to cheer me up after my ex and his new wife attended. The flag they handed your sobbing mother reminded me of the time your dad told you that you needed to do something more serious with your life.
