Rouging of the Lamb B

My sweet mother of pearl struck a ruby eyed reef. Then quickly sank into the deep, just shy of the cay of life. Don't remember much about her, Daddy never had much to say... about the sinking. Ancient pictures tempered fawn like curiosities. Whispered to me that she had sunset red hair. A mother of pearl smile. Diamond chips set deep in lonely eyes. Soon after the sediment of death settled. "Wrecking ball mom" swung into the salty blue mix... Daddy must have been moon rock lonely. Because he only saw the soft, silky pretty. Not the pyrite hearted, soul licked by cold, cold fires-bride. A much to young, to cuddle a half orphan, kind of bride. In public her voice cooed, "I'll buoy your little sinking heart, with a million butterfly kisses. Chocolate chip all your wishes". In private she breathed fire. Plotted, with steely strap, to carve a granite man from a wandering lamb. Who never needed carving, only a little kneading from a potter's gentle hand. I spent a healthy wedge of childhood. Treading a rolling ocean of her dorsal fin coldness. Cutting a backyard full of weeds with a pair of rusty hand shears. Rescuing favorite toys from the garbage cans Staring into heaps plates of things I didn't like to eat. Like asparagus my least favorite "anti-treat". Everyone would drift into the living room to frolic away the evening. While I was chained to her electric chair... Gazing into a saucer filled with those green devil spears. At times I sat so long the mashed potatoes would harden into the face of mother of pearl. Most of the time wrecking ball mom won the food battles. Rarely did the boy under the bed come out on top. One night, I'm sparring with the devil spears. Deciding on a whim, to slide them under the table. Into the willing jaws of my beagle friend...muffin. The next day I shuffle home from school. Wrecking ball mom is frothing in the doorway. She quickly leads me under the kitchen table. To my deep green horror, there lay a small forest of day-old asparagus. Seems this is the one thing my best friend didn't care for. This is when I was first introduced to, wrecking ball's wicked handiwork. That would often rouge the face and back, but cunning enough not to crease or crack the lamb. wham...wham... I saw "hitting stars" for the first time, wham.... wham.. I swear a cluster of explosions went off inside my head.. Seems carving a man out of a paper lamb was a long and painful task. In a way I felt lucky because, for a moment, I thought she was going to rub my nose into the regurgitation. Just like the time she rubbed the nose of my best friend for pissing up her new bride carpet. By the way, daddy (the swing shifter) was oblivious to these rougings ... It's ok daddy your fully forgiven for wearing that rose colored hard hat. We all must wear it at some point in time-to deflect the offal of life. That was many years ago...doesn't really matter anymore, I've outlived a few best friends. The wrecking ball's backhanding and black belting days are over. She's silver headed and soft as a plate of overcooked veggies... Every time I visit, I fantasize about rouging her... Wham- wham! Until she sees that same pack of hitting stars... that I once saw. You know, carve an old step bride into an under the sink child. Rub that nose in yesterday's piss in honor of my best dead friend. Unveil those wrinkled whips disguised as mommy hands. For the whole rosy eyed world to finally see. That fantasy will forever go unfulfilled...God willing. So instead, I offer her an Atlantic Ocean-cold hug instead. Just like any good, semi-forgiving step man would do. Now, I'm heart deep in the melancholy mist of fatherhood. To this day, I won't touch asparagus and I never rouge my lambs.