25 March 2007

— so long, hank —

We're here to bury, you Hank. That's me, Jake and Maurice. You may not remember Maurice, Hank. He's the guy you were brawling with last Friday. The big guy. Six-five. Any normal person would've backed off. I count Jake and me as normal. Don't know Maurice well enough to say.

I'd have to say most times you were normal, too, Hank Don't want to be disrespectful, you being dead and all, but why in Jesus Murphy did you tackle the big guy? Then swing off that chandelier like you were in some crazy movie? That's why I added most times to normal, cause I know you wouldn't want us to say anything that wasn't so, even at your own funeral.

Now, you and me go way back. School. Our first real job. You always stood up for me Hank, even told Miss Robinson what she could do with herself. That there wasn't what you'd call polite, but I thank you for it. I wish I could've done the same for you. And that summer we planted trees. God, that was a hell of a job, what with the mosquitoes, and my sore back, but we stuck it out.

Kinda went down hill after that. You hitching up with Emmy. I don't want to be disparaging here, but I could've told you it wasn't going to work out. I can't say I'm sorry about it. But, I know you took it bad. Was a decent wedding though. Her family sure knew how to lay out a spread. Still remember those cabbage rolls. Never eaten better. Emma wasn't too keen about me being around, though. Likewise.

Well, no one's going to be hanging around now, if you get my meaning.

So long, Hank. We'll miss you. Bye and bye we'll be meeting up.

Louisa Howerow has published work in small print magazines, journals and on-line. Her latest flash fiction appeared in Hiss Quarterly and is forthcoming in 371 Atlantic.

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