One in Keith Moon’s Size

by Regis Boff

There can be only reasonable certainty that two other people have had sex. And men are never to be counted on as affidavits in this regard. We are dirty creatures more than available to disgrace women, let alone ourselves.
Keith Moon always insisted he had had her. My mother that is. I knew him well enough to leave him be about his fantasies. We all did.
The trajectory of her last years and death was not unlike his.
They headed south like seasonal geese, straight into God’s jet engines.
Their memories, like feathers, are scattered everywhere around my past.
I showed him a picture of my mother once; she was attractive. Someone had snapped it in the decade of the flowered smock.
The smock dress, a product of the 1950’s, was the church’s last attempt to stifle any hint of a woman’s sexuality.
Keith got over her but never that dress. He was inclined, for years after, to sidle up to me and whisper in my ear if I had any luck yet in finding one in his size.