after Venita Blackburn

Their dad could curse. Motherfuck this and motherfuck that. My goddamn back’s more fucked up than a football bat. He cursed his luck when the prop bets wouldn’t pay and cursed his taxes when they would. He cursed the boys twice each, solemn and serious moments they would neither speak of nor forget, but he never cursed their mother. Some things are sacred.

And some people are too profane for cemeteries. His only instruction had been, next to her. So what to say on the tombstone? None of that veteran nonsense, not when it was Agent Orange that got him in the end. Friendly fuckin’ fire, he would’ve said. Loving husband too redundant for a shared plot, loving father not quite true. Fishing fanatic, an eye roll asking questions of solitude too big for six square feet of granite. Salesman, soccer coach, savior; trite, tacky, true but tasteless.

They settled on a name and dates, skipped even the hyphen between. Took the money saved (not to be confused with the money inherited, not to be confused with the money earned) and travelled every time that latter date rolled around again. They wanted to look for what wasn’t there. A cruise doubling as a reunion tour for an almost-forgotten 80s band, projecting the past onto singing bags of bone. Endless treasure hunts, silent save for the metal detectors’ beepings, circumnavigating small islets where Blackbeard is said to have slept. Whale watching where whales never go; imagine being the first to see them here, the tour guide offered. Imagine.

The years went by and their horizons shrank. Flights became drives but the ocean remained. Seeking bad beaches, military towns, ideally both. This year, a hybrid diner/laundromat in Virginia Beach, the spin cycles and servers’ rhythms perfectly synched so a meal spanned a wash and vice versa. It soothed them, seeing two puzzle pieces with no business fitting together so neatly.

-I said it in kindergarten, one told the other.

-What?

-Motherfucker.

The other spat caramel-colored coffee, rich with cream.

-What did you think it was?

-The warm flush when stubbed toe pain fades away.

-You wanted it?

-I did.

-Back then, it was the word for out of reach.

-No, it meant we lost a game.

-It’s when every step you take is on a rake.

-It’s when the soup’s too hot.

-Too cold.

-No, it’s when you wake up in the morning and remember where you are.

-It’s when you wake up in the night and remember who you are.

-And the person next to you has already forgotten.

-And the only memories they have of you start so late they’re still the present.

-And you stub your toe crawling for her in the dark.

-It’s when you agree to fish the pier at sunrise, but he doesn’t show, so you gut walleye straight into your lap and wait for the flies to descend.

They stopped.

They considered how far they had not gone still, the lives they were supposed to be living on behalf of the dead. They considered the laundry and the band, ringing rhythmic sounds saying love me while you can. They considered the treasure and the whale, still waiting beneath the surface, hoping to be seen.