It was the night of your funeral and all through The Jewel, I can still see you sitting like a lump on the stool. Day in and day out we'd slam down our beers, I still cannot fathom why you’re not seated here.
It wasn't your liver, though we had bets whose was worse. The odds always in favour that you’d never go first. It wasn't your heart though it's been broken many times. And it wasn’t your sugar from drinking outside the lines.
It wasn't from smoking - you quit when forced outside. Nor was it your cholesterol - though you enjoyed your foods fried. It wasn’t from when you bailed and bruised your spleen. And it wasn't a drunk driver, oh what the irony that would have been!
It was a sliver from the bar top that you first showed off with pride. It got so infected and caused you to die. You hid it from everyone til sepsis took over. We are here to celebrate you, man - to find us some closure.
It’s last call at your funeral and all through the Jewel. I can still see you sitting like a lump on your stool. Day in and day out we used to slam down our beers.
It’ll never be the same without you seated right here.
Kim kjagain Moes of Nanaimo, BC, lived in an RV and travelled extensively around North America for several years, but after selling her Majestic home on wheels last year, she is living part-time here and there while maintaining a primary residence in Canada. Her work has appeared in print and online journals, in English and Spanish. She unravels day-to-day events finding inspiration to meet the words climbing out of her mind. On writing, she says, “Write the life we live, explore the lessons not yet learned, and then, eat catharsis for dinner.”