Vern. Hey Bro! I have not forgotten to thank you, my muscle-man, the guy who shows up when I need him, who takes care of me and my daughter Julia. No one ever messes with us when we walk down the street with you. That killer look. That body. Those thick tattooed arms, those calloused fists. And now, the BEARD!
I didn’t keep my promise to bake you a pie a week. But you took Julia under your wing and taught her how to punch. I really thought the ballerina would turn into a boxer.
Our girl is grown now. You are the night cat in the clubs. I stay home and write poetry. When we get together we invariably reminisce how you reined that little wild pinto in. I eat my salad while you chomp down your meatloaf. I always enjoy our walks, especially the one down Mission Street at night, admiring the old cinemas on each block that have turned into parking garages or vegetable markets. Who could have imagined in their glorious days that they would have such ignominious ending? We just keep going. That’s the best we can do. Oh, and keep deep-frying the turkeys. You know Avotcja loves them.
Photo by Vivencio Peralta.
