thomas-dewey-Unsplash
by JD Clapp
Your eyes go from dead to wild on a rocket, frail limbs pushed up and back from the table, gagging.
All the while Ma droning on about how happy she was because I found her meaningless shit in storage, and now she could bring it all back and add it to the new clutter in your assisted living place for you to trip on.
I did the Heimlich on your ass for a minute, your face blue, thinking “yep, the old man is going to die right here and now,” while Ma patted your shoulder and kept talking about the amazing yarn stash I’d uncovered.
Then you did that un-woke Atlanta Brave tomahawk chop, and I thought “this is a hell of time for baseball,” but my muddled mind cleared, and I whacked you hard, even though they say never to do that, and that fucking wad of cheese and beans and tortilla flew out, hit my table with a splat!
Like some dying American flag, your color went from blue to red then to death white, and mom stopped talking about needlepoint supplies and asked if you wanted ice cream, “because that would be nice.”
Then when I was driving you both back to the old farts home, ready to start drinking on a Monday at 1:00 p.m., you said, “that was one of the best burritos I’ve ever had,” and I felt another piece of me fall away.
JD Clapp lives in San Diego and writes short stories, poetry, and creative nonfiction. His most recent work has been published in Punk Noir and Don’t Submit.
