Written Word
One box of saltine crackers, with one of four sleeves left, half eaten, and secured with a sloppy twist and a chip-bag-clip, that is the same width as the final sleeve is tall with crackers. This is all Nathaniel. He loves crackers, but refuses to put them away or consolidate. We are using a whole box to store a single bag clip, essentially, because the crackers will be stale, but I won’t care if needed: To the top shelf it goes.
Once, she stepped into our house in Edgewood and before greeting anyone, she exclaimed, “please, son, do not die before me!”
“I mean, that is the plan, Mom, but may I ask why you are demanding this? I assume it is not because the pain of losing your only child would be too much to bear?”
“Because I really don’t want to have to deal with the collection of bullshit that you have accumulated!”
He contracted hepatitis from a blood transfusion following a freak accident with a combine in Kentucky, while day-laboring at a wheat farm. The pot and bourbon could not stop the progression of the illness, so he seemed to welcome it with ever-increasing amounts of brown liquor.
Nonfiction
more nonfiction in the works
