February 28
by Eli Meckler
I wrote this for Stan's birthday last year, summarizes some of my strongest memories with him.
Do you remember fishing?
430, before the sun sent little tendrils through the pines, you'd wake me up. I can't remember if we ate then, or if we waited until we were on the road, sleepy, on our way to the lake. We'd load into the boat and steer out into the deepest water. It's bright now, and the light shimmers in time with gusts of wind that rocked the boat. You taught me how hold the rod, how to wait out the fish, how to reel in gently. You taught me patience. I never wanted to eat the fish, but you taught me how to clean them. In the sink, long after the sun set, we stuck our hands into their innards. It reminded me of pumpkins. You made me laugh anyhow.
Do you remember going bald?
The whole family was at your house. You beckoned to us grandchildren, and we giddily followed you into the garage, into the bathroom that I had never stepped foot into before. It felt scandalous, an impulsive comedic routine for us to participate in. We covered your head in shaving cream, and Jacob and I took turns gliding the razor across your head. We laughed, but not too loud, exchanging conspiratorial smiles. You encouraged us, half developed chimpanzees with poor muscle control, to give you a close shave. We managed not to draw blood. Then you donned a wig and led us back inside. I felt like an accomplice.
Do you remember showing me the bagel shop?
It was in the evening--nobody was there. You brought me to the back first, and you described the process. I didn't understand it, but I gawked at the large stainless steel machines and asked more questions than I knew I had. You answered patiently. We walked back towards the front. You described your regular customers, but I was distracted by the art, tire treads, meandering down one wall, across the floor, and up another. It reminded me of the Coyote's murals to trick the Roadrunner. I told everybody I knew that you owned a bagel shop.
Do you remember target practice?
We started with paper targets, but you brought out cans every once in a while. You taught me the rules. You taught me to respect the pellet gun. I was okay, nothing special, but I felt like an action hero. You egged me on, and you celebrated when a can twirled off its stump and tumbled to the pine needles below.
Do you remember the laughter?
No--that one isn't in the past. Well, it is, but it's also now, it's also in the future. Your life is diffused with laughter, with joy. You spread it with those who love you. Here's to many more years of that laughter.
Do you remember fishing?
430, before the sun sent little tendrils through the pines, you'd wake me up. I can't remember if we ate then, or if we waited until we were on the road, sleepy, on our way to the lake. We'd load into the boat and steer out into the deepest water. It's bright now, and the light shimmers in time with gusts of wind that rocked the boat. You taught me how hold the rod, how to wait out the fish, how to reel in gently. You taught me patience. I never wanted to eat the fish, but you taught me how to clean them. In the sink, long after the sun set, we stuck our hands into their innards. It reminded me of pumpkins. You made me laugh anyhow.
Do you remember going bald?
The whole family was at your house. You beckoned to us grandchildren, and we giddily followed you into the garage, into the bathroom that I had never stepped foot into before. It felt scandalous, an impulsive comedic routine for us to participate in. We covered your head in shaving cream, and Jacob and I took turns gliding the razor across your head. We laughed, but not too loud, exchanging conspiratorial smiles. You encouraged us, half developed chimpanzees with poor muscle control, to give you a close shave. We managed not to draw blood. Then you donned a wig and led us back inside. I felt like an accomplice.
Do you remember showing me the bagel shop?
It was in the evening--nobody was there. You brought me to the back first, and you described the process. I didn't understand it, but I gawked at the large stainless steel machines and asked more questions than I knew I had. You answered patiently. We walked back towards the front. You described your regular customers, but I was distracted by the art, tire treads, meandering down one wall, across the floor, and up another. It reminded me of the Coyote's murals to trick the Roadrunner. I told everybody I knew that you owned a bagel shop.
Do you remember target practice?
We started with paper targets, but you brought out cans every once in a while. You taught me the rules. You taught me to respect the pellet gun. I was okay, nothing special, but I felt like an action hero. You egged me on, and you celebrated when a can twirled off its stump and tumbled to the pine needles below.
Do you remember the laughter?
No--that one isn't in the past. Well, it is, but it's also now, it's also in the future. Your life is diffused with laughter, with joy. You spread it with those who love you. Here's to many more years of that laughter.
