"The lowly Saints of everyday"
He works in the yard, and I doth protest. It's hot, and you're old--I tell him such things. But he persists in communicating with God in the garden of suburbia. We don't always see eye to eye--who does?
I feel his anxiety and tension, yet his corporeal self is withered, like unto a fading flower, though never in the image of Narcissus.
I cook and bake for him. He likes whiskey and hard spirits, as did Hemingway. I told him to write like that guy: machine-gun sentences. One. Two. Three. Linear thinking, which I'm incapable of, questioning everything, and testing every spirit.
We are not Starsky and Hutch, for we don't drive a "Striped Tomato" as Hutch had dubbed the monster Ford, that cool yet fiery Gran Torino.
It's all high horsepower 6 Cylinder engines nowadays, mostly, but they lack the manipulating rotation of torque produced by the behemoth big blocks of old. Still, he loves working outside. I keep an eye on him, even during his rants at the political news and the Bravo Sierra it doth spilleth on the quasi-airwaves of today.
