and baroque, manicured appearance.
Barbara Streisand albums displayed in the parlor
were a give-away.
He taught special-needs children.
His mother left him the estate,
and he turned it into a bed-and-breakfast.
I know men like him
who fled to the city in their youth,
liberating themselves from the stranglehold
of rural intolerance.
Yet here he was:
fledgling entrepreneur,
hospice volunteer,
director of the Presbyterian choir;
as rooted in the red soil
as the Cottonwood tree that shaded
my bedroom window.
I wanted to ask why
I wanted to ask why
a handsome gentleman living alone
in the dust bowl of America
had not turned his heels
had not turned his heels
in search of companionship.
Then he produced a photograph
of daughter and grandchild.
"The blessed outcome", he declared,
"of an awkward, high-school affair.
Don’t the Lord fashion fortune from our folly?"
He excused himself for the evening.
I lingered on the stairwell,
straightened a crooked picture,
signed the guestbook inscribed
with a verse from the Book of Psalms:
and wonderfully made;
marvelous are your works,
my soul knows it well."
In the morning,
he set a table of fresh berries and scones,
poached eggs,
coffee,
crème brûlée
crème brûlée
in homemade raspberry sauce.
Our Grandmother,
Our Grandmother,
for whom we traveled many miles
to celebrate a birthday,
remarked that our host reminded her
remarked that our host reminded her
of the nice young man who designed
her home interior remodel.
"You're thinking of Cousin Jerry,"
her sister replied.
"You're thinking of Cousin Jerry,"
her sister replied.
"Such a charming boy he was.
Shame he never married."
**First published in Hole In The Head Review
