He’d be dead in three months. Bob. The big guy came walking up the driveway, eyes fixed on the lawn. Dad was watering. Same jeans he had in the 70s. Same brown flip-flops. He didn’t stop moving the hose back and forth. I stood watching. “Listen, we gotta talk. Bury this thing.” It’s what everyone wanted. The whole block. Just make up, some said. He didn’t mean it, others said. He said he was sorry. I just wanted them to be friends again. But I knew my dad. “Mom, you gotta talk to him.” She pointed to the ring not on her finger. She shook her head. She went back to her coffee. She knew him too. “Go home, Bob.” That’s all dad said. Bob looked at me, then back at the lawn. “I said I was...You know what? Fuck it.” He walked away. Home. Dad coiled up the hose. “He talks too much.” When Bob was dead, his wife waved me over, drunk on her porch. “I’m sorry,” she slurred. “Bob never should’a said those things.” She reached for my hand. “Honey, it was just a joke.” Her pinkie went up. “Honey, he didn’t care about that stuff.” She rubbed my hand. I shifted away. I left. Dad was on the porch, standing. I went into the house. He followed. “You want to go get some new brake pads for your car?”
More poetry. Always, more poetry here.
And stories, for people that want to lose themselves for a bit. Here.