Fred Thomas – All Are Saved

This weekend, they will bury my dog in Phoenicia. At the very least, they will scatter her ashes along the soft creek that runs behind Humminbird Lane with her should-have-been Labrador lover, Larry and her would-have-been tripedal cat nemesis, Jackie-Do. I imagine that there will be much weeping from the parents of the passed (I know that pets are not people but please indulge this childless man his sentiment) as well as those congregated to share in this simple return of dust to the elements from which it was forged by miraculous fortune. Then there will be drinking and eating and dancing. There will be costumes and softball and fishing, perhaps. There will be life played out at its best, among friends and lovers and children strangers to the day.

And I say “they” because I’ll be in Queens next weekend as I am today and as I have been and will be most evenings and weekends, tending to the last of our pack, a cold beer and the riot act until something breaks free from the trying and then a bright, golden light will shine down on the shadowy hours like a kiss from sweet coral lips and we’ll be perfectly happy and sated forever, amen.

Also, I’m broke.

So what, right? If I wanted to be there, I’d find a way. I’d sell some blood or wax or posters or books or just ask for the bucks to get there and back for the day or max out another credit card again or pass up a regular payment or do something, ANYTHING other than sit back in anguish and stupor at home wishing I could’ve had a few more dinner dances, nuzzles and kisses before Melissa sang our perfect little Chinatown huntress sweet dreams:

Girlith Ann is beautiful.

Girlith Ann is beautiful.

Girlith Ann is beautiful.

Beautiful.

Beautiful.

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