I have a cousin.
He dropped out of school to follow the dead. The band. The hippies. The parking lots.
I heard he popped pills and did things that made his mother deny he slid out of her.
His pictures gathered dust in her house. The one of the whole family, hung on the staircase, disappeared.
When Jerry Garcia died he came home and got a job.
He pounded nails and held large pieces of wood every day. He tried to make cocaine a working man’s drug. Some things the Midwest will never understand.
One day a close friend said some words to my cousin, not sure what they were as I wasn’t there, but the words must have been greasy and flung with might because he got punched in the face.
In the eye.
The bone that aids in the captures of tears collapsed.
He still hasn't answered my question, "Could you see out of it as it hung over your cheek?"
Ron Currie, Jr.