Grace given over nostalgic fabrics

This shirt. This shirt I got at a second hand shop in Liverpool that’s rayon with blue flowers and rust-colored accents. Had it since ‘98. Like the beloved rayon shirt in college I buried my cat Sherman in, just because. The fabric so smooth and clean. I can leave it unbuttoned mid-chest as I’m a man pushing 50 now with a bit of a gut and a Rolex and Polo-branded shorts and a black Mercedes. I’m a confused stew. My face is broken in like a baseball mitt, soft and pliable. You can tug on it, it gives like taffy. I don’t care as much about things like I used to. I see myself more the way I saw my dad now, his replicant. I feel sorrow in new, unexpected ways. I’ve gotten good with cocktails. I’m tired of having pets. I let my beard go long and white and fancied myself like Ernest Hemingway with my tan and cocktails and this propensity to brood from all I cannot say or do, the lushness of a world pressing down on me without the right words to honor it. That’s all I want to do here. To hold hands and bow our heads, to give thanks before we all dig in…

Categories: microblogging, prose, writing

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22 replies

  1. Confused stew is great. Aren’t we all.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. ‘my face is broken in like a baseball mitt, soft and pliable.’ that’s it

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Hemingway? When I was 30, I fancied myself Jim Morrison revisited. Bearded, but still thin – I think there was a brief window where he was like that. Now that I know more, Hemingway is a better choice.

    Liked by 3 people

  4. That’s touching, about burying the cat in a favorite shirt, just because.
    I hope you don’t break in a baseball mitt like we did when I was a kid – – oil it up, and run the car over it a few times. The beard looks good, symmetrical, mine comes in uneven and patchy, always looks like I’ve been fighting with cats.

    Liked by 3 people

  5. If you’ve reached that age and you feel the pressures of a world that has indebted you with all that it has given, you’re a blessed man, and I wish to follow the same path. I can’t bow to Hemingway, however, as I’m not too fond of him.

    Liked by 1 person

    • That’s a lovely sentiment Joao-Maria, thank you! I may not have much in common with him other than visiting the same town in the Austrian Alps a couple times. I’m not much of a skier, either…

      Liked by 1 person

  6. About five years ago, the son of an old friend was telling us about his time at Con Fest, mentioning in passing that they’d gone skinny dipping. I’ve known him since he was born, yet this wiry young man still glanced sideways at his Dad and me. Good on you, I said, you’ll never look as good as you do now.

    Every mirror raises an eyebrow at me these days as time gently erodes my face. And I’ll gladly stand and hold hands, but I won’t look down. I’m done with subservience to an imaginary power, so if it’s OK, my friend, I’ll look up.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. I always thought you came across on the page as rather Hemmingway-esque. Although I don’t think Hemmingway would ever catch himself by surprise in a selfie quite that way.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Read this one twice! My body is more or less the same as it was in my youth (blessed be me) but I am loathe to be semi-naked, even in the heat of summer. The spots and moles and veins, both bulgey and spidering. Nice piece.

    Liked by 1 person

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