"Failure"
To pay for my father's funeral, I
borrowed money from people he already owed money to.
One called him a nobody.
No, I said, he was a failure.
You can't remember a nobody's name.
That's why they're called nobodies.
Failures are unforgettable.
The rabbi who read a stock eulogy
about a man who didn't belong to anything or believe in anything
was both a failure and a nobody.
He failed to imagine the son and wife of the dead man being
shamed by each word.
To understand that not believing in or belonging to anything
demanded a kind of faith and buoyancy.
An uncle counting on his fingers my father's business failures,
a parking lot that raised geese, a motel
that raffled honeymoons, a bowling alley with roving
mariachis, failed to love and honor his brother,
who showed him how to whistle undercover,
steal apples with his right or left hand.
Indeed, my father was comical.
His watches pinched, he tripped on his pant cuffs,
and snored loudly in movies, where his weariness overcame
him finally.
He didn't believe in savings, insurance, newspapers,
vegetables, good or evil, human frailty, history, or God.
Our family avoid us, fearing boils.
I left town, but failed to get away.