Haley Lasché
To: Robin, Chris <littleboylost@aam.co.uk>
From: Bear, Edward <honeyluva@gmail.com>
Date: 13 April 1994
Subject: RE: After All This Time
so sorry to hear you’re having a time of it
would love 2 help however ive retired
good luck in your search
fondly,
pooh
>>
>
Uncle Henry
This man called Henry
married my Auntie Amy
the one I used to share a room with
before she married the first asshole
the one who tried to run her over with his car
and left for Mexico.
Our extended family drives from the edges of four directions:
My mother’s childhood reconstructed
one weekend every summer in a single cabin.
Henry is our newest addition.
He is the same age as my grandpa,
and aside from his liver spotted monk’s cap,
we are reminded of this fact each morning
as the two older gentlemen waddle down to the dock
with their fishing poles and a bucket of worms.
Henry is the same age as my grandpa,
and he wears these little shorts.
And when he wears these little shorts
Auntie Amy pulls him into the bathroom
and we listen to him moan.
And my catholic grandparents
and my recovering-catholic-oldest-of-six-children mother
and Amy’s seventeen year-old daughter
pretend that they can’t hear.
My mother stretches her jaw
by clenching her back molars
passes the syrup
forgets to blink.
And my Aunt Olive
(the one I share a peapod with)
mouths to me across the breakfast table
“sexy beast.”
I am respectful (even though I started that joke)
because my seventeen year-old cousin
wakes up to this every day.
And Henry is the best parent she’s ever had.
I don’t laugh because I’ve met him twice
and he always remembers the first job I quit
and he always remembers that I was good at it.
I wink at my Aunt Olive
with my far away eye,
the one facing her fifteen year-old son
and I ask which cousins will help me with the crossword
after we clean the breakfast mess.
The littlest cousin beams.
He is afraid to speak to me
because I see him once a year and
I am the oldest woman he knows without kids or a husband.
I know he wants to help
because he got the last word
last night
when the other adults watched baseball.
He touched my leg and said ‘timber’
and he was right.
Henry and my Auntie Amy
are out of the bathroom
into the kitchen.
My grandparents
and my recovering-catholic-oldest-of-six-children mother
and Amy’s seventeen year-old daughter
pretend that they don’t notice.
And my Aunt Olive
says, “sounds like a good morning.”
Amy ignores her
kisses her daughter,
and Olive’s fifteen year-old son
chokes on his eggs
because he knows where that mouth has been.
I reach up,
touch Amy’s arm,
and smile.
She kisses my head in return.
I am laughing so hard with Aunt Olive
and her son
because I earned that kiss.
And because we are laughing so hard
we are sure everyone knows
that the two of us are proud
enough to stay up late
gossiping about how happy
and jealous we are
that Amy has evolved past rebellion and obedience
as all good catholic girls hope to do.
We are proud and jealous
of this life she has chosen
which looks different
from any life so far.
And at night, we know
he holds her,
places the body of Christ
on her tongue
without cost or confession.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Haley Lasché has her MFA in Writing from Hamline University. Her poems and creative nonfiction have appeared in the What Light anthology, The Crab Creek Review, The Furnace Review and rock.paper.scissors. Her work is also set to appear in the upcoming Not a Muse anthology. She has performed her writings at the Soap Factory Art Gallery, Magers and Quinn Bookstore, The Hexagon Bar, in friends’ living rooms and on top of tables among other venues. In addition to writing, she is a college instructor, a post-modern dancer and a punk-rock fashion model.