Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Rudolph.

What I want,
she said,
is for you to write me
something for Valentine's Day.

Jesus,
I thought.

Well, how's this...

Once I wrote a eulogy,
for my friend's mother,
a woman I had never met.
But my friend was dear
and sad and knew
that I understood,

so I agreed.

So I got all of this information,
on the mother,

about the mother.

There were letters and notes
on my desk,
on my shelves,
on the floor,
on my bed,

there were photos
stuck to my wall,
inside my books,

even a photo of

the mother

on my desk at work.

But I still couldn't write a single fucking thing.

Until,

with one night to go,
I realised that
I didn't actually
have to write about
the mother,

and then it all came flowing.

And I was actually fucking laughing,

while I was writing this thing,

this eulogy for the mother,

I was laughing because I had a captive fucking audience,
who would listen to every word,
and who might just be in the mood
to take it in,
the message,
the message from the mother.

So I told them to hold the hand of the person next to them.
I told them to go home and tell their partners they loved them.
I told them to
smile at strangers,
surprise their friends,
quit their jobs,
do something crazy,
be different,
take action,
be bold,
be free,

be free everybody,
you have to be free,

because it's all going to be over,

[and you never know when...]

so smile in the meantime

and let's all be goddamn free.

That was the eulogy I wrote.

Yes,
she'll say
(and I know her)
but this is not the Valentine
I was hoping for.

And I'll avoid and evade,
for that's what I do,

but the fact remains,
that I love you.

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