Around the beginning of July, 2005, give or take a few days, I found myself at the foot of my grandfather's grave. My family issuing the sobs of ghosts beside me as the bagpipes, played eloquently, transcended life into something less than tangible. I got back into the red four-door Saturn, though I could have swam home through the ocean of tears shed that day. I got home, opened up the fridge and pulled out a coke. I needed something to hydrate me for I had lost too much water in the downpour preceding my arrival home. I was absently listening to the chatter of those around me, conversations of memories, annoyances, jokes, hell.. even the weather. Then I heard that scream. The voice of my mother, newly parentless, escaping beneath the door of the bathroom, "Oh shit!" That's not something I normally hear someone in the bathroom scream so I investigated as nature would dictate. The creaking of the bathroom door, the promise of rusted metal, filled my ears as the door slowly opened up like the cover of an old bible. And there my mom was, rain leaving the azure blue skies within her eyes, her lips with the reminiscence of obscenities stuck as peanut butter to the roof of the mouth. It's funny how a small pair of reading glasses can epitomize the loss she felt after that funeral. She looked up at me with those once blue eyes stained red and rasped in a harsh voice, "When it rains, it pours." She gave me a weak, grief-stricken smile. With over fifteen people lodging in our small two-bedroom home and a broken toilet, it's safe to say the shit hit the fan. Turns out our pipes had busted from those small non-prescription bifocals. Hundreds of dollars were spent for the newly repaired pipes a few days later, but inside my mind to this day, every time someone puts on some of those little reading glasses, I'm reminded of how when it rains, it pours.
August 4, 2010