Friday, February 19, 2016

Big Daddy's Ghost

     I knew what those letters stood for, even though there was one K too many.
     Seeing them there didn't make sense.
     They were stamped on, not signed in blue or black ballpoint like the other cards.
     There was no real name or address.
     I saw them all, went through the envelopes too.
    There were hundreds.
     The names and handwritten sentiments are fuzzy in my mind, but I remember those four letters on that card, the creamy texture of the inside page.
     I see them as if they were here, for real, in bright red, staring back at me.
     It burned almost, when I realized the hands that last touched that same card I was holding right there in my new home on the hill.
     I wanted to get rid of it, like I would if one of those bad men in jail sent a card to say they were happy he died. None of them did that, by the way, so maybe they were sorry, too.
     These men were scarier than the men in jail. I could smell their sweat and the tobacco juice underneath those sheets as I held that card in my hand.
      It looked clean but felt dirty.
     Why would those men send a card to say they were sorry he died?
     It didn't make any sense.
     Nobody like that showed up at the funeral home to lurk in the shadows while we shook hands and hugged a million people next to those carnations painted to look like a silver star.
     There weren't mystery casseroles being delivered in the night by creepers.
     What was going on?