Keith always insisted they had a connection.
The trajectory of my mother’s last years was not unlike what was finally to be his own.
They both headed south like programmed seasonal geese into jet engines taking off from God’s airport. Neither jet nor psychosis was willing to alter course.
Their broken feathers scattered all around me while Moon’s drifted across the globe.
I showed him a picture of my mother once; she was beautiful by any standard. Someone had snapped it in the decade of the flowered smock. He was instantly smitten. Over tours, he would bring her up to me out of nowhere.
The smock dress, a product of the 1950s, was the church’s last effort to stifle any hint of a woman’s sensuality. But unfortunately for repression, the more one tries, the hotter girls get. I owe all my sexual fantasies to those inhibited Puritans who raised me.
When my mother died, conveniently between Who tours, he took it in pace and reluctantly gave back my picture.
He did, on occasion, sidle up to me to ask if I had any luck yet in finding a flowered smock in his size.