Friday, September 23, 2022

Michael Weeks 3

The day of your funeral a hundred people came to the cabin we built on the back of your parents’ land.
 
What times we had there. We continually jumped over the campfire until Roberts fell into it. We played guitars and danced like morons. We hung stolen street signs on the walls and dripped profanities in candle wax on the plywood bar.
 
Cabin guests were by invite only. I guess the crowd was invited, but not by you, me, Roberts, or Sundance. I entered the door, saw two young girls scraping your candle wax off the bar, and walked out.
 
During the service, a rain fell so hard no one could hear the speaker. I cried and sang “Fire and Rain” while Nic and Sundance played guitars.
 
After the service, the rain stopped and everyone got stuck in the mud—wheels spinning, clothes ruined. I laughed. I know you did, too. 


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