We go way back.
And if I remember correctly, it was you who followed me home that night in cold April.
The frost covered the half-sprung tulips; I laughed at their crowning corpse heads.
The kitchen window, still mostly shattered from when dad decided Goulash was no good on a Sunday.
Goulash, is that The Lord's food? Where were the Salmon Fillets, the Mango Salad?
Mom never cried. Scout barked; was electrocuted by a hair dryer two days later.
Passing the mostly gone window, I heard the sound of crackling egg fat when yoke hits the butter laden pan.
"Fried eggs in April? Won't The Lord be mad? What'll we hide for those snot nosed kiddies, pops?"
I saw him then,
through the almost totally shattered window.
I untied the erect rope from around the ceiling fan.
Goulash would be safe on Sundays. The eggs? Untouched.
We met first then
Later when Maribeth decided to go the Woolf way (giant pebbles and all).
She had, after all, graduated with an English degree.
So I'm writing you now like an Irishmen signaling the banshee.
I am tired old friend. Tired and sick.
Cancer has me most of the time.
When it isn't that, it's my obstructed arteries.
Could also be the Cirrhosis, AIDS, or my ever intensifying personality disorder.
So be a dear, would you? Please?
--Emma Eden Ramos is a writer and student from New York City. Her fiction has appeared in BlazeVOX, The Legendary, The Citron Review, WritingRAW, Down in the Dirt Magazine, The Fringe Magazine, and others. Her poetry has appeared in The Camel Saloon and is forthcoming in Heavy Hands Ink.