This Is Christmas Metazen

Letter From Florida Rick Hale ...and when I'm fnally dead, you might be eating cereal with him up there in Maine. His hand might shake, and raisins might land on the foor. He might look at you through those big glasses and the words "Well, your Uncle Dewey died" might fap and tremble their way out of his mouth like a fock of geese heading north. He might stand up and limp to the kitchen, wipe his tears on paper towel.

You might stare dumbfounded into your milk, trying to divine comforting sayings in the million specks of Reese’s Puffs there. (They shake in time with his stagger.) He might stand in the kitchen for a long time, thick retired-mechanic fngers clenched in peppered hair. You might fnd yourself without one single word of consolation for your dad, and I truly hope that never happens—truly.

The porcelain throne beckons. Don't expect me for the holidays.

-Dewey