Time: the Father of Us All

            There is no way to slow time, the father of us all, absent father at that, leaving little bastards from sea to shining sea, even words vacuumed from pages into this swirling orifice smaller and smaller until too many and too small to read. People have tried everything from Retin-A to Rogaine to a mixture of Vodka and valium. Ponce de Leon or was it Vasgo de Gamo, searched for the fountain of youth. Try alcohol, fountain of age, but at least you can taste it going down. What an asshole he must have been, but then no more so perhaps than entrepreneurs of other sorts, speculating and not finding but continuing the crusade until the queen's money is spent. Unfortunately for him, he underestimated how universal the laws of time are. He was playing with fire, no with the sun. There is not a law for those who drink A and another for those who drink B, but one for us all, so drink up and shut up.

            He clutched the flowers to his chest and imagined it all to be different, she had not gone restless and found her way to Florida, necessity had not demanded that she begin to sell her body, and the man who had just called had not told him that she was dead and gone. Yes and JFK was back in Camelot, RFK was catching his passes, the good old paternal order of America was still blowing up Marilyn Monroe's skirt, and MLK was peacefully resisting.  That sort of thinking was good for a few minutes, or even hours. But as the effect wears off, the hangover has you scratching your head six inches too wide. 

            When Roosevelt died in Georgia, a slow train had brought him back north and thousands had lined the tracks. Gloria would come back north in a box provided by the great state of Florida, in the back of a late model Ford pickup with a camper. Truck beds are for fish, for dogs, for dry wall, but not for daughters.

            His little girl, the little blonde who dreamed herself of being president one day, talked openly of her ambition. The straight As all through high school might as well have been Ds or Fs. This message to parents everywhere, A does not mean always, it might just mean afterthought or asshole for believing the myth.

            What would they do with the videotapes? Capital idea, squander the film like it was another life. Why not, you only live twice, once for real and once on your loved one's videostream. Easter dresses and halloween faces, marching to Pomp and Circumstance. What a cruel joke, the videorecorder. They should all be cast into the sea of forgetfulness.  You never watch what is captured and if you do, those you love stare into the camera and mock, like washing your hair at grandmas and seeing your big nose in her Delta faucet. No video cameras would be allowed in Gray's Funeral Home, no one would try to sneak one in. Death shows it credentials at the door, no subterfuge or false hope or smiling for the camera. No green shaving cream turned foamy white.

            Go down Gloria, down by the river Jordan and be baptized with John and the other disciples. Take flight little dove and light on the shoulder of Jesus, my daughter in whom I am well pleased. Before I forget all the scripture I have ever read, be gone. Crank up the old Duster and glide into the southern heat, never looking back, just the way you've done so many times before. Call me with the little calling card we got you at Wal-Mart when you get halfway there. And then again when you get there and dial it direct. Let it ring just twice and we'll know it's you and not some telemarketer trying to sell us another line of credit.

            Here take this testament and this sack of half dollars with you. Use them if you get lost or better yet, turn it around at any time and drive back home.  No one ever seems to die on the way to see the family doctor. You died on the way to see a heart specialists. My darling, it must have been your time.