Taps

I can tell that it's going to be another scorcher. It's the kind of day that melts any kind of butter. Yet I will persist. I will listen to Charles Ives' Decoration Day. I will make a sweet vanilla butter with flecks of red and blue sprinkles folded into this butter and enjoy it on pumpernickel bread in the cemetery. I will call this butter, the American. I will eat the American with Ronny. That's right, I will call Ronny and invite him to the cemetery. I will invite his wife, also. Together, all three of us will spread the American on pumpernickel bread and savor the American on our tongues and with our tongues, free bits of sprinkled American out from between our teeth.

I will excuse myself from the cemetery. I will hear someone playing Taps from somewhere. I will take Warden and Regrette on a walk and we will smell grilling. I will think of my best friend and how we got high and decided to have a hot dog eating contest. How my Dad came out from the house with his Pepsi and told us to slow down, that if we were that hungry he'd put more hot dogs on the grill! I will think: That was a long time ago.

I will write a letter to Dad. I will write many things. Things that shouldn't be hard to write, but always are for some reason. I will ask him about the war, maybe, or about Mom. I will apologize for certain things I've done and maybe offer an explanation or two for some of my actions. Before I know it, the letter will be several pages long. I will read it and decide not to send it. I will tell myself that I'll call him tomorrow. Or, maybe the day after that. For a split second, I will want to eat the letter, to put everything I've written back into me. But instead, I'll tear it up and throw it away.

I will be tired. I will open the window. I will still hear Taps somewhere, but this time, it will sound much farther away.