Panegyric

Relic

“ Red,” you say, “ the sun that evening in Berlin. A brilliant, striking, unforgettable shade of Red.”

In this memory for some reason it's always raining.

There we are, you and I, alone in your garage. Your “den” you'd often refer to it as. I remember the shelves of old knick knacks. War medals. Trophies. Fishing gear. Photographs. Everything that truly ever mattered to you proudly on display for all to see. An intricate story behind each item free of charge for anyone willing to listen. Unfortunately, back in those days, there were very few who would listen - who hadn't heard each and every tale told and retold countless times. Unfortunately, family didn't really come around that much anymore. Unfortunately, you were more of a burden than a familial treasure.

And there I'd sit, a wide eyed little neighbor kid, ears pricked not daring to move a muscle or breathe a breath in fear I'd miss even a word. And there you were, an 80-year-old kid, excitedly ducking and weaving behind your torn recliners and rusty filing cabinets firing imaginary guns at imaginary ghosts of imaginary Nazi's who lived on in your memory... and now mine.

Demons

“ Red,” you say, “ the dog in the corner, over there... it's fucking red.”

Leather straps drawn taut across your chest and wrists groan and creak. You struggle to stay conscious and more importantly keep yourself from vomiting as the methadone drip slowly works it's way through the vinyl tubing to the I.V sloppily buried into your track-addled forearm. You start to hyperventilate as your eyes roll into the back of your jerking head.

I stay calm. I keep my voice even. “ There's no dog. It's just you and me here. Okay? Everything is fine man... just try and relax... Hey. Everything is cool, I'm here.”

“ F-Fuck you! It's there, oh god! Help me please, fucking get it away from me!!”

With a patient sigh I stand up and walk over to the door. I turn the lights up to their brightest setting. I come back over to your bed and sit down. I dab sweat from your forehead with a cold wash rag and hold your hand in mine as I softly hum one of our favorite tunes we used to sing as children.

We sit for awhile. The room is silent except for my humming, the smacking of your lips, and an occasional whimper.

“ See? Nothing there bro'.”

Your vice-grip loosens and you breathe just a little bit deeper. I place my fingers on your neck and count. It's much slower now. With half-closed eyes you look up at me awaiting more words... more reassurance.

I smile and say, “ Hey let's order a pizza. The food here fucking stinks.”

Absolute

“ O.K what's a three letter word that could also mean 'coward?'"

“Red,” you say, without looking up from the paper.

“ Pop... red? Are you sure?”

“ Yeah, you never heard that phrase? A red-bellied chickenshit?”

“ Nah. Are you sure you're not thinking 'yellow?'”

You peer up at me. Tiny eyes underneath your glasses. “ That's what I said... 'yellow.'”