A white Jeep flipped a bitch, your expression, and it came to me because that of that time you were pulling out and that Jeep did a U turn and hit you, and then tried blaming you. That’s how it was going for you, then. Your poor grey Bimmer was totaled when it flipped on 101 on the home commute after hitting a piece of wood in the lane, but the insurance company didn’t believe you. But they couldn’t explain why your car flipped, either.
‘Round and Round’ came on, and I thought of you, your face lighting up as you lunged for the boom box and cranked it up as you said, “Oh, my God, that’s my tune.” Then you played air guitar and sang.
I think of you whenever I see an Atlanta Braves uniform or hat. You’re gone and the players you cheered have retired but you bled the colors. And you’re there when the Packers play, even though Favre moved on to the other teams and the HoF.
Every time I stop to look at a new program, I think of you, because you were the first one to ever point out to me all the little things, encouraging me to not be afraid and just click on things to see what happens. You come to me in a whiff of Pall Malls and Marlboros, in a sweaty white Miller can, and in the taste of bad, burnt black coffee in small paper cups. I see you when I cut open a watermelon and gaze at the rows of black seeds in the glistening sweet flesh and when I hear a fighter jet split the overhead air. You emerge when someone speeds by, talking on their cell phone, because I can hear you spit, “Slow down, fucker, and get off your phone and drive.”
Van Halen’s ‘Jamie’s Crying’ comes on, and you pop out, because you were dating that young woman, Jamie, and ended up marrying her. We were all at the club one night and started singing it to her, and she started crying, asking us, “Why are you doing that?” She was drunk, we all were, and you and she went into the dark corner and talked and kissed. You’re in the taste of a well grilled cheeseburger because nobody made them like you, no one ever in my life, and you’re there when I think about making pancakes or get out of the car and stretch and look around at a highway rest stop. You’re there in the blue sky over the ocean and in the whispering, salty sea breeze, brushing your hair from your face and urging me to move over so you can take a picture.
You all come to me, individuals caught in the wad of bubblegum that is me, individuals contributing to my sum total, from your moments and points, trying to stretch away but always mired in the pink strain of memories.
Michael Seidel, writer 