Letter to Suicide (an old friend)
We go way back.
And if I remember correctly, it was you who followed me home that night in cold April.
The frost covered the half-sprung tulips; I laughed at their crowning corpse heads.
The kitchen window, still mostly shattered from when dad decided Goulash was no good on
a Sunday.
Goulash, is that The Lord's food? Where were the Salmon Fillets, the Mango Salad?
Mom never cried. Scout barked; was electrocuted by a hair dryer two days later.
Passing the mostly gone window, I heard the sound of crackling egg fat when
yoke hits the butter laden pan.
One crackle,
no pop.
No smell.
“Fried eggs in April? Won't The Lord be mad? What'll we hide for those snot
nosed kiddies, pops?”
I saw him then,
through the almost totally shattered window.
I untied the erect rope from around the ceiling fan.
Goulash would be safe on Sundays. The eggs? Untouched.
We met first then
and
Later when Maribeth decided to go the Woolf way (giant pebbles and all).
She had, after all, graduated with an English degree.
So I'm writing you now like an Irishman signaling the banshee.
I am tired old friend. Tired and sick.
Cancer has me most of the time.
When it isn't that, it's my obstructed arteries.
Could also be the Cirrhosis, AIDS, or my ever intensifying personality
disorder.
So be a dear, would you? Please?
Thanks.
*Emma Eden Ramos is a writer from New York City. Her work has appeared in BlazeVOX, Calliope Nerve, The Citron Review, The Legendary, The Fringe Magazine, Down in the Dirt Magazine, and a few other journals.
This piece first appeared in Calliope Nerve
