When Mike worked in construction his daughter, a baby, was poorly. The woman they circled, skewed. He came into half-ass skill in windows and hanging doors. The money, uneven. A judge took his license unjustly. In his forties, he fell from his bike. Not just the once. The medicine he got, wrong. Work twisted, hammers went missing, his teenager spiraled up and out. But on a given day, biking, he still oddly soared.
Dolls seated in a row on display. Neatly dressed, nicely vacant. Pink and white peek through the crispy crunch. She left them there, spongy soft, before she changed her mind and heard the barn door close. The matches struck, sharp, bright. Now Bessie has no dolls to play or mind to change with. The barn. Huge and dark as a child’s delight. To close the door. Imagine.
Death comes in threes. Status Update read,
“Fuck My Life”. I didn’t know she was gone forty minutes earlier. She was
eleven years old. I taught her first word: Bitch. Cried ‘til there were
no more tears. He died one week later. Cancer in three places: his lungs
being most crucial. He was 79 when we danced last summer. I missed both
funerals. Duty calls. She kicked first. He kicked second. There’s a jerk
in my knee.