Fugue #158

Do not be discouraged, Gene. You are not forgotten.

I think about you every day.

Today, I thought about how you taught me to fight when I had to. You told me to grab the guy by the shirt collar with my left hand ("grab him hard," you said," like you’re serious, so he knows he’s not getting away"). You told me to hold him at arm’s length, and pull him quickly toward my right fist, which should shoot straight out and turn slightly in, so the outside of my last two knuckles become the point of a line starting at my shoulder. ("Smash across his jaw, it works," you said.)

I never had to use that lesson. Maybe someday I’ll be lucky enough. Not to fight, but to use your advice.

Dad is still kind of a mess, even this long after. Mom is ok. The house is the same mostly, though your bedroom has a weird feeling to it. They kept it pretty much the way you left it that morning, but they didn’t. The furniture in the same place, but everything is tidy, too tidy. No clothes dropped on the floor, no papers scattered across the desk, and no pictures. The pictures of Emily are gone, and so are most of the pictures of you. Actually, there’s not much of you left in that room.