"The hand! It's moving. I saw it. I saw it!"
Why they had to have an open casket funeral is not for Astrid and I to comprehend. I look over and see Batka nursing his vodka with Cecelia Sometimes caressing her coffee cup and his shoulder. Batka is the kind of guy whose even composure allows him to fit in anywhere, whether it is a wedding or a wake. I suppose he is thinking about his rent even though it may seem that he is contemplating our departed friend Ritchie.
Ritchie's mom is howling at the priest to call a doctor. She swears her son is still alive even though he has been dead for days from a massive heart attack. Some emaciated Strawberry alerted the hotel concierge on her way out about our friend's sudden condition. My guess is that she took the crack stem from Ritchie's hand when he retired. Now his mom feels as if something is missing but just can not figure it out.
His wife is there with their two children and two mutts. She just brought them back in after one of them tried to piss on the coffin. Ritchie would have been amused.
Astrid bought the 5th Dimension’s Age of Aquarius album for a buck on the street. She has hung it up over the kitchen sink and it radiates its pseudo hippie glory all over the wash area. Someone called me an aging hippie today, not knowing that I am actually an aging punker. It's likely that the distinction was lost on his ecstasy laden brain. The gray streak that has sprouted from my widow's-peak like the Bride of Frankenstein, is growing right where the Mohawk used to be. I began repeating my old mantra:
The Age of Aquarius is a lie,
They built bonfires, carry torches though they're blind
Peer deep into the well you think must shine
These days of wine have drunk you dry.
Astrid is humming an old Cure song. Through the ancient caked windows the lightning is strobing and the thunder crashes come quicker. I reach over and nibble her ear and neck. She smells divine. I miss all my beautiful friends.
