Mushroom's Elegy

Mushroom had a gentle,

Albeit quirky, manner

Like a magical coyote

Wearing a bright purple beret.

He cherished his spouse

And made her laugh.

“He’s so random, non-sequential,
So much my opposite,”

She’d tout.

And she was correct,

Let there be no doubt.

You felt comfortable being around him,

As if you were with your brother

Or even your sister.

He would sit down next to you

And listen.

And then he would tell you stories

That sparked like a blanket

On a dry desert night.

He had a wicked sense of humor,

A little twisted,

A little dark, at times.

He’d laugh if you tripped

And bonked your head.

And then he’d give you a hug
While giggling the whole time.

He pointed out the silliness

Of life.

Of love

Of words

Of our most tightly held beliefs.

And yet, he cried.

He cried with me

when I was heartbroken.

He cried when he listened

To heartbroken lovers.

He cried while watching ballets.

And he even cried at cartoons.

He wasn’t afraid to share his tears

Or his laughter.

He enjoyed being around

All his relations,

Regardless of age

Or race

Or form,

Or wealth.

He could sit and listen

To people much older.

And he could get on his hands and knees

And play with cars with little boys

And draw pictures with little girls.

He would pick up little kids

Who stretched out their arms

And called, “Up. Up.”

He even played with kids

In restaurants he didn’t know.

He talked to the tree people

And the rock people.

And they would tell him stories.

He even talked to mosquitoes

And asked them not to bite.
Can you believe it?

They listened

And didn’t bite.

His presence held magic

To heal,

To sooth,

And to draw out a smile

From those who mourned.

He could console grieving parents,

Because he was one.
His heart was big

And his shoulder soft.

Above all,

                                                       He was kind.

When We First Met

My brothers and I hosted our parents' 25th wedding anniversary at thier house. We invited their friends, relatives and neighbors. Our neighbor, Eda Bea, and I chatted while I tended bar at my parents’ 25^th wedding anniversary. “I just returned from Viet Nam,” I said.
“Oh, that must have been horrible,” she said.

“It was,” I said. I wanted to change the subject. I wanted to keep my parents' anniversary happy. “After we left Viet Nam our ship sailed with two other ships completely around the world. We sailed around Africa.”

“That must’ve been fun,” she said. “How long will you be home before you have to leave again?”

“I've been transferred to a ship, whose homeport is here in Long Beach.”

“Oh, good! We’ll be seeing more of you then.” She talked about her children, who I knew, except for one. She didn’t understand how I could not know, Denise, her oldest daughter, since I had been to her house so many times to retrieve my little sister. My sister’s best friend was Holly, Eda Bea’s youngest daughter.  Eda Bea looked at her watch and told me to stay put. “Denise should be home from work by now,” she said. “Wait here and I’ll bring her over for you.”