“Columbia Rain”
By Jacob Meunier
I cuddled up with that jacket last night,
on this pink minnie mouse sheeted futon.
that one that’s traversed two continents and an ocean.
it smells of
my torn and knotted-up-together blankie Great Grandma made me.
the second door on the right down the hall.
green.
gold.
and blue.
where at a young age i took a photo
shirtless for MySpace.
the brown bunk bed lacquer.
snaps from their living room.
running through the halls.
the pointed wall corner and the glue
above my lip and below my nose.
three silver surgical staples skull tacked.
throwing open our door.
the soft and red Maple trees out front
the chopped down colossal Japanese Elm once outback
all adorned with yellow ribbons in ‘01.
the formation of Lake Meunier on the front lawn sidewalk
when the rain comes.
the moth balled closet.
7 light purple deep bowls of “Golden Puffs” bagged cereal on a saturday morning.
of
the Buhler dull grey garage siding.
crying while looking at it
after coming home for the weekend in college.
the memories of snow forts,
snow drifts
when snowball fights with rock cream filling hit me.
no more reverence.
of
pointing my finger and yelling “fuck you” during a softball game
in front of my whole entire church congregation.
the plaster tree in Arby’s on Stellhorn.
grandma’s sunday morning gossip underneath it.
the back door kitchen entrance to Coney Island.
baseball games at Joe’s and George’s.
chapped lips.
of
male pattern baldness and hoping i don’t get it.
ever changing hairstyles.
crooked teeth and dropped knee loving earrings.
bucked teeth and pudginess.
poorly brushed or not at all brushed teeth.
long fingernails with lint underneath.
the visibility of blue veins through scrawny white skin.
of
thrown gaming controllers.
broken gaming controllers.
getting red shelled while in first place on the last lap.
screaming matches over who’d get the tv or computer.
of
Zesto’s call and response:
vanilla -- vanilla
chocolate -- chocolate
swirl -- swirl.
running through St. Joe Center traffic.
waffle cones.
the best part.
24.9.
Skippy.
Mitsy.
Max.
the command to see the ball
catch the ball
bring the ball in.
of
‘04, ‘09, ‘17 and ‘18.
the first few months after Great Grandma and Grandma died.
a candlelight vigil in the basement.
dimples.
balloons with notes attached to them.
crispy brown wilted flowers.
red eyes and pink cheeks.
the time i drove mom to her room.
sitting outside her door crying because she was.
of
the garage door dent
after telling Madison “I got this, okay?”
messy rooms
the incessant need to close the doors.
never showing truly what’s inside.
being too afraid; too ashamed.
when guests finally came around.
maybe.
of
an eighths worth of clouds in the impala.
some brownies in the hikers trail mix.
getting day drunk.
of
brown recliners.
silver bullet cans.
stacks and stacks of newspapers.
clothes drying on towels.
being asleep before 5pm.
of
a Hacienda birthday dinner i barely remember
the lighting at home
setting suns
mom’s fake cacti
Mexican paintings and
great grandma’s fake oil lit lamp:
something out of a Tarkovsky film.