Good Morning Mr. Joe!

Good Morning Mr Joe!

He wakes up while the room is still dark. The sun doesn’t shine through the window panes anymore. They remain closed. Untouched.  Her radiance has since left him. 

Dust gathers at the spot where the floor and window meet. He wonders why her side of the bed is not covered in dust. 

A click of a button, and artificial light seeps through his eyes. An unfaithful promise to a good day.

Still. He tries. 

The wood floor screams at his steps. His chilled feet walk over to his slippers. He remembers the days of good slippers. Where the act of sliding your foot in felt like Cinderella’s glass shoe. He remembers the days of good slippers. Where the fuzz held your foot and whispered softly: “Yes. I was made for you. And you for me”. He remembers the days of good slippers. Where there wasn’t an itch on his toes and they were soft like a truffula tree. He remembers the days of good slippers, yes he does. 

He wonders when his slippers started feeling like broken twigs and stale rabbit tales leaving his feet in a constant chill. 

12:00 flashes repeatedly on the broken microwave clock in a dark cherry red that reminds him of Rosa’s favorite lip color. He always liked her name because it reminded him of a rose; the “ah” leaving a lingering sensation at the back of his throat. Her name sounds like a: … would feel. 

She always wanted him to fix the microwave clock. 

He never saw the point. 

Now he does. 

He should fix it. 

He can’t remember the last time he touched a screwdriver. 

Does he even have any screwdrivers? 

He presumes Rosa would know-and for a split second he thinks he can ask. 

Joe begins to brew coffee. He begins to think about the concept of brewing a pot of coffee for a single soul. In this case, brewing “a pot” of coffee is meaningless. You're technically brewing a cup. No one ever mentions how depressing this act is.

His coffee cup is made so the maximum amount of coffee that can be brewed is 12 cups which means it approximately serves 6-8 people. Joe considers the fact that he is in America so that would probably serve 6 people exactly since everyone in America has large mugs and apparently hates tiny things. 

Joe measures 3 spoonfuls of ground coffee. 

Joe measures 1 ½ cups of water.

He’s always considered himself a middle of the road guy. 

Joe looks at the coffee settling in the pot. He observes how it never touches the two cup line and how there is not even a line for one cup because who has a coffee pot and is making themselves one cup of coffee. But then again, around 45% of marriages in America end in divorce and 30-50% end in being widowed. Maybe a lot more people are making one cup of coffee in their 12 cup machine. Coffee companies should really consider this. 

Joe takes out a sharpie and draws a small black horizontal on the clear glass cylinder and labels it “1”.

Joe sets his coffee down at the dining table. A brown ring has now formed. He knows he should use a coaster like Rosa always preferred. He prays she doesn’t see. He doesn’t know who or what he’s praying to, per-say. Sometimes he plays with the idea of a God, but it has never really fancied him. Although Joe was raised by Irish Catholics he never considered his religion a part of himself.

He liked to party in highschool.

He liked it especially with his cousins and brothers.

He hated the taste of alcohol, the pins and needles down his throat.

He swore it almost made him puke each time, his worst fear is puking. He always felt like he was turning into a wolf.

But here’s what he liked about drinking. 

And drugs.

And weed. 

:

Oblivion. 

He did not know what time it was.

He did not know how many shots, hits, or grams he took. 

He did not know who’s lips brushed against his.

He did not know the before.

He did not know the after.

He only knew how walking felt like dancing, talking sounded like singing, and laughter cured him like medicine. In these moments Joe swam up to the clouds and appreciated the world of dancing spirals that surrounded him, that was all he needed to be.

Eventually this would all come to a stop. And he would know it all again.

Then it would hurt. 

So he chose to live in a state of ignorance most of the time. 

And yet- 1968. Freshman year. Rosa.

Rosa Rosa Rosa. 

He could not stop thinking of her. 

Her red lips. 

Her brown hair that cast a ray of orange when it glistened in the sun. 

Her knowing. 

Rosa peeled every inch away from Joe and held him close when he was only him. It was here Joe collapsed under the song of Rosa. I guess one could say he drowned in Rosa’s radiance, or perhaps it was Rosa that pulled him to the surface, and let Joe see what was above the water. 

They were married by age 19. By age 21 they had their first baby boy. Joe quit everything. 

Dry like a turkey on the butt fuck of Thanksgiving.

-

Joe peels open the crossword puzzle as he recounts on these pictures and videos that play again and again in his head. 

125 down: “Now's Partner”

The answer is “Then”

Now and Then. It is the “125 down” on this Sunday morning that reminds him of these memories of Rosa.

He is now. She is then. But he was once then, wasn’t he? And at least in his head, she is still now. 

At 9:30 a.m. Joes stands up and slides on his jacket. He steps outside and inhales autumn.  Yesterday morning he inhaled summer. But today, the hairs on his neck slightly perk up, the air feels like a clean glass window, and when Joe turns his head 45 degrees to the left he sees a dead leaf depart from its tree and fall to the ground with only a whisper. He likes to think of trees being the mother of the leaves. 

These sudden changes indicate to Joe that it is Fall. He is happy about it, Joe loves the change of seasons. 

At 10:00 a.m. Joe walks into the field of overgrown grass, stones, and the world of six feet under. 

He notices a young girl with long brown hair that splays across the green above her laying in the grass, it reminds him of Rosa at that age. He observes her for a few seconds as if she is a painting. The girl doesn’t move from this lifeless image and Joe wonders if he’s seeing a ghost. The thought of that brings him peace, so he decides to let this woman, dead, alive, or somewhere in between go about her day, and he will go about his. 

He stops at the storm cloud gravestone that’s painted red and orange. The kids did that a few years back. Those were Rosa’s favorite colors, it makes her stand out, but not in an abrasive way. 

“Rosaline Allison Walsh September 8, 1950-September 12, 2000.

'I see your face in every flower. Your eyes in stars above. It's just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love.’”

“Hi Rosa honey,” Joe whispers. For 7305 days he has said these words. Joe knows he will do it for infinity more. 

Joe tells her about the slippers, the coffee, the crossword, and the girl. 

“I’ve been thinking of getting a new coffee pot. 12 cups seems like an awful waste, doesn’t it?”

And oh so suddenly, or perhaps, not suddenly at all…a wind from the east sweeps through Joe, under his Jacket, through his stringy gray hair, and into the holes of his ears, nose and mouth, singing to him in oranges, reds, and all that is, and all that isn’t.