The Value of a Good Cry

I spoke to my Uncle last night. He's dead – three years gone, so I had to buy the first two rounds and the third was free. I came in to his house, a small bar at the last stop on the train, and he was on the wall.  Black and white, a few dirty finger prints all mounted behind glass in a faux gilded frame – he never blinked. I kissed the picture and spoke with the survivors, most of them knew me from before but I didn’t remember them. Something harder might have been more appropriate but I drank the ale –it wasn’t the cheapest option on the menu. I played his music, old crooners, rock ‘n roll from the 70’s, and a gnarled voiced carnie. I don’t think he regrets his death - he only left behind people that love him, but he doesn’t know that, he doesn’t know anything any more. Death or drink made me feel romantic about all of this – not sure which. Romantic about all the invisible men in the sky – they’re unhelpful most of the time except for Hermes. When the sun goes down Hermes is left to his own devices, bound only by his will. He carried a message for me and in the most timely of manners I got my response. I can’t tell you what I heard but soon I’m going back to that place to drink beneath my Uncle’s simple altar. I made my prayers last night and small sacrifices will be due in the future but for now it’s all paid up.