We're Headed Up My Mom's Ass!

I never met you and I'm not sure of what connection we have other than that you're my mom's father, but somehow we seem inextricably linked. Oh I realize there's genetics and all of that, but beyond that I can't think of many reasons for me to care so much that you existed. There's the obvious rationale that my mom gets rather nostalgic when your birthdate comes around and so I should feel empathy for that, but my mom gets nostalgic for a lot of things. She ponders dates so much that after a while they all just sort of blur together and lose their uniqueness.

I hold on to your things tightly. There's a wooden cigar box that you presumably used, a photo you might have taken, a lighter shaped like a fish that I can only assume not only needs fluid, but a new filament as well and finally there's also one other thing I can't quite shake. Apparently you always use to talk a lot about next year. You'd talk about how next year you'd take Toe Blake up on his offer. Next year you'd go to Montreal. Next year you'd go see the Canadiens play.

There's not much of a next year left for you, but I picked it up for you.


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