A young woman made a slight jog up the stairs at Kent State University’s Arts and Sciences building. She composed the full definition of bounce. From her curly fry hair to her pure, white meat bust, she was engineered solely of elastic. Even when she finished the last step, almond hair teased her full cheeks with whispers of contact. The bulky mathematics books were enigmas compared to her milky robust cleavage just inches away. The sweater she wore lacked the button that guarded the border between conservancy and promiscuity. Her slate blue eyes were inviting pools that overflowed with excitement and erotica. Her eyes screamed, “All swim at their own risk.”
As she walks further down the hallway, it is hard to not loose oneself in her posterior. Her hind parts were disclosed by a loose fitting, short, white skirt. The derriere under the skirt could be seen rising and falling from left to right. Time stopped along with the hearts of many men when the sound of her pencil striking the floor echoed throughout the corridor. The sight of the woman bending not at the knees, but the hip, could dislodge a man’s Adam’s apple. The bottom of her skirt ascended just to the point of exposure when she reached the object on the ground.
The woman continued on entering a room with a turn and a wink.
The person that wrote “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone” should have a newly discovered insect named after him. There aren’t many truths that I know of or believe in other than at some point you are born and at another you die. The time in between is what is called life and is yours to make it what you will. There are three forms of life: dying (for those “woe is me… we are all just waiting to die” types), existing (these are the people who scrounge up what little happiness that can be found at the bottom of a bottle and hide in it for fifty years) and then there’s living. Living is what a person transmits, not through action, but absorption. A person who lives, lives on in others even after they die. This person may not do much with their life, but much is done about it when they are gone. People cry about a person who lives and they are selfish. The ones who care the most are selfish; they want the person back for the gain they feel when that person is with them. A person lives when you can look at their loved ones and see not just sadness, but disarray and confusion. The loved ones search for guidance in the abyss of their thoughts for a fading light of the past to direct them through a life without the deceased.
A person who lives never dies, but is saved. Saved for the worst of times and those times in which even God seems to take sides. Saved for an important birthday, wedding, graduation, promotion or meaningful occurrence; to be remembered and appreciated. Love can’t even explain a man who lived. You can love a cat, but you can admire a man who lived.
I know a man who lived. I know a man who was saved. I know a man who is remembered and appreciated. I know a man who calls to me in the fading light of the past and directs me to a future without him. Mostly, I know a man who I admire.
Who would have thought that the first meaningful Father’s Day would be the first I would have to conquer without you? Possibly the man who wrote, “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.”
I love you dad, and I miss you.
Happy Father’s Day,
David
The bold yellow and red light glistens on his suit made of pure silver. The natural glow that he once had is now a whispered memory compared to his reflection in the par can lights. His smile gristly condenses the wrinkles on his face of prickles, and his teeth expose a structure of great precision. The young man’s eyes leer as if they were mirrors peering into one’s own soul. The clamminess of his salty sweat hands becomes apparent to him, and he wipes them frantically on his pant leg. He watches the smoke infuse the room, escaping from the silhouettes whose stares are as blank as their appearances. The reverb is ringing, and the shadows are shouting. Sweat starts to bubble under the man’s dress hat as he reaches for his once block of wood. His hands shake with anticipation and his intestines tremble in fear. He shakes out the demons that he can, and he drowns the rest in a bottle of beer. He knows what is to come. For the next hour there will be cheering, laughing, hooting and clapping. Joseph Vega lets the reverb ring no more, and gives his followers one last leer with his eyes of mirrors as he strums out the anticipation of the masses.
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