Eulogy

I remember your rock star dreams,
underpaid, underappreciated musician
playing local bars ‘til 2 AM,
collapsing into bed ‘til 2 PM,
caffeine zombie by day
and cannabis by night—
rewind,
repeat.

It didn’t pay the bills.
You couldn’t sing,
but you played a mean flamenco.

The little blue Stratocaster rests
under my bed now. I strummed it
when I was 5
and wanted to be just like Daddy.
You sang me to sleep with
Beatles’ lullabies.
The White Album makes me weep, still.

Did Jesus meet you when you died?
Or did John Lennon?

I listen to your LP’s, now mine,
burn patchouli, and pretend
it’s 1971,
when you were young
and long-haired
and I wasn’t even born yet,
but belonged better to a time long before.

I’d never dare pull
a Back-to-the-Future stunt,
for fear of falling of love with the man
who’d be my father.

I love you still.

Art by Christian Barron.  Words by Teniesha A. Kessler-Emanuel