Slowing down speeding up where is the middle? Do I want the middle? Forever obsessed, possessed, by repetitive neurons I can only embrace their bombardment. There must be a positive searching in impossible places for lost items, frozen with anxiety but propelled with purpose to conquer the virus ridden computer, soulfully searching for lost feral cats.
This legacy of life,stuck in rewind incites macabre events such as the digging up the grave of my two day old brother, born in 1966 and relocating him to the rural paternal family cemetery. My mother would hear the cry of my long dead sibling in the months before her death, grieving over a baby she never held and only saw in a lace edged picture, still in his white coffin. I have not found theses photographs yet, hidden somewhere under newspapers, under my father's disintegrating clothes, under acrid black rice from generations of rodents.
There was state paperwork. A mortician, had to be present. a gravedigger and both cemeteries notified. It was November the Danish cemetery where my brother was to be relocated was apparently closed for the winter. They were not happy with our plans and charged us accordingly.
It was cold and the Funeral Director had warned us that most likely there would be very little left to exhume. Surprise, it was a five hundred. pound engraved vault with his name spelled Michel. A few relatives watched at the Catholic Cemetery across the street from a middle school that had just let out. The lone gravedigger, breathless had used a series of improvised pulleys and physics to elevate my brother's cement sanctuary. It was trying to rain, maybe the earth thought someone should cry for this long-dead boy.
The Danish Lutheran Cemetery was on a dirt road in a pastoral setting. A simple white church stood sentinel over the graves of of Hansens, Petersens, Christensens I could understood my mother's wish for her baby to forever rest here. I saw my brothers gathered around the new grave, loudly discussing the exhumation. One brother was visibly intoxicated waving his arms bellowing in his pseudo-Shakespearean voice.
I wanted to erase this scene and create a peaceful exchange for this fortunate boy who entered heaven without sin. I had brought my mother's favorite Ford handkerchief with a small portion of her ashes placed inside like a hobos treasure, pictures of her family tied amidst the grey remains. A few of my father's cinders were tied in a plastic baggie to complete the final destination.
The funeral Director watched this all and said technically it is only the baby buried here. The cemetery board was concerned about how many remains laid in one plot. My brothers were asked to help with the descent of the casket. My oldest brother fell down and we all gasped and sighed in relief as he stood up.
My inebriated brother began to fall and in the evil recesses of my brain I wanted him in the grave, no longer disrupted by his bi-polar, alcoholic, pedophile ass. It was not to be as the good, kind brother who had rescued me years before intervened
.
No one said a prayer, no one cried, but I knew it was complete. Michael was no longer alone. My parents were with their innocent child, the lucky child. No longer to weep as he forever rests, safely wrapped in my mother's, in his mother's love.
This legacy of life,stuck in rewind incites macabre events such as the digging up the grave of my two day old brother, born in 1966 and relocating him to the rural paternal family cemetery. My mother would hear the cry of my long dead sibling in the months before her death, grieving over a baby she never held and only saw in a lace edged picture, still in his white coffin. I have not found theses photographs yet, hidden somewhere under newspapers, under my father's disintegrating clothes, under acrid black rice from generations of rodents.
There was state paperwork. A mortician, had to be present. a gravedigger and both cemeteries notified. It was November the Danish cemetery where my brother was to be relocated was apparently closed for the winter. They were not happy with our plans and charged us accordingly.
It was cold and the Funeral Director had warned us that most likely there would be very little left to exhume. Surprise, it was a five hundred. pound engraved vault with his name spelled Michel. A few relatives watched at the Catholic Cemetery across the street from a middle school that had just let out. The lone gravedigger, breathless had used a series of improvised pulleys and physics to elevate my brother's cement sanctuary. It was trying to rain, maybe the earth thought someone should cry for this long-dead boy.
The Danish Lutheran Cemetery was on a dirt road in a pastoral setting. A simple white church stood sentinel over the graves of of Hansens, Petersens, Christensens I could understood my mother's wish for her baby to forever rest here. I saw my brothers gathered around the new grave, loudly discussing the exhumation. One brother was visibly intoxicated waving his arms bellowing in his pseudo-Shakespearean voice.
I wanted to erase this scene and create a peaceful exchange for this fortunate boy who entered heaven without sin. I had brought my mother's favorite Ford handkerchief with a small portion of her ashes placed inside like a hobos treasure, pictures of her family tied amidst the grey remains. A few of my father's cinders were tied in a plastic baggie to complete the final destination.
The funeral Director watched this all and said technically it is only the baby buried here. The cemetery board was concerned about how many remains laid in one plot. My brothers were asked to help with the descent of the casket. My oldest brother fell down and we all gasped and sighed in relief as he stood up.
My inebriated brother began to fall and in the evil recesses of my brain I wanted him in the grave, no longer disrupted by his bi-polar, alcoholic, pedophile ass. It was not to be as the good, kind brother who had rescued me years before intervened
.
No one said a prayer, no one cried, but I knew it was complete. Michael was no longer alone. My parents were with their innocent child, the lucky child. No longer to weep as he forever rests, safely wrapped in my mother's, in his mother's love.
