coming of age on a tiny isle
my father reached out his hand to me and took my bag of marbles including my hand made "shooter" of red river clay hardened by fire and ground to roundness against a flat grainy rock
near perfect
at least to me
even though it wobbled a bit in it's travels to capture the prize from Jeffy
my friend
my enemy
"it's time" was all my father said to me on my first day of being eight years old
my childhood was over
the old boat needed patching
fish needed scaling and gutting
shrimp needed to be shelled and cleaned
summer had started and the few people with money
shambled up to buy the daily catch
wrapped in paper
on this tiny island
this small sliver of sand and scrub
stood three shacks lived in for four generations
the mainland shimmered in the near distance and we knew that my father's calling would be the last of his kind
the far rich shore beckons to me
and someday soon...
Ah, look!
here is a fat white samurai,
goes by the name of Jeffy.
I see him,
drunk and slurring insults in the direction of his brothers
what a shame.
He might have been someone
yet here he is.
If only Gawain or Kissinger or Super Mario could have been there instead of him,
maybe they could have averted the situation from its violent course...
But none of them were.
And I, Jeffy,
drunk and ever foolish
fought a dirty fight in a dying bar against overpowering odds.
And sadly, I won.
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