After the YACHT show my sibling and drove up our dirt road to find it obstructed by a pot of marigolds. “Dad loves marigolds!” we exclaimed and I heaved the mass of someone else’s labor into the backseat of my car.
The next day I drove down our road and saw that our neighbor had only one potted plant lining her gate and deduced where our gift had come from. Around midnight my brother and I put the pot back by her gate with an apology note.
My mom and I were buying some marigolds, a funnel and a six-pack at Albertson’s and the woman behind us was buying a Heath bar and a bouquet of flowers. “It must be flower day!” the cashier exclaimed, and the woman behind us said that Albertson’s was close to the cemetery. “My dad passed a year and a half ago, and I’m just waiting for it to get easier.” I felt lucky to be buying living flowers for a living dad.
A few hours later I saw a Facebook status my dad had posted warning against purchasing flowers at Albertson’s, so it looks like our father’s day gift will require some maintenance against white fly. I just figured he could leisurely guzzle Marble Taproom IPA through a funnel while admiring his fancy blue-glazed pot of marigolds.Later my mom and I realized we had forgotten the tomato juice, which makes a good cocktail with cheap beer, soy sauce, sugar, and chili paste. My brother and I went to fetch some and ran into my aunt at the store who asked: “is there anything I get for you at the store?”Cole Bee Wilson is better with our little cousins than Noah and I are, and asked the children about how he should play the stock market as they expounded their wisdom on Trader Joe’s version of Funions. “Are those organic?” Cole questioned.
Noah and I sat on the couch working on projects and talking with Grandpa Obie and Ian about music and the difference between men’s and women’s shirts. Cole and my grandpa were wearing girlfriend/wife shirts.By the time my dad was done listing the ingredients of the rib-rub he had made (chili, turmeric, cumin, soy sauce, honey etc.) my aunt was on the way to the emergency room with my little cousin Basie having an allergic reaction. Eileen, my step grandma (my Eileen) accompanied and those of us in the front yard continued to drink beer and play music.
My grandpa passed me a joint and after my mom explained to him that I didn’t want to smoke it. He expounded about how the medical stuff was very strong and his friend has recently passed out from one hit. My uncle played his hit who’s chorus was developed at age 5 or so: “Micky Mouse was a cowboy.” We delved deep into the rhetoric of the song.
My little cousin came back from the E room with his posse and was embarrassed to be seen without a shirt. I offered him the littlest one I have and insisted that he must get into the Mars Volta due to its namesake, as Adhit had insisted to me when the garment was given to me.
At the end of the evening everyone ate lemon meringue pie (except the town-vegan) and talked about music. My uncle patted my brother and I on the back, saying he had enjoyed hanging out with us and loved us. I drank more whiskey and felt sentimental.

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