American Ghost Roses

Reliquary

56 Reliquary In฀the฀news฀photo฀she฀pinches฀a฀frozen,฀Saran-wrapped ฀ catfish฀fillet between฀her฀index฀finger฀and฀thumb,฀the฀way฀priests฀hold ฀ the฀communion฀wafer— reverently,฀secretly฀giddy,฀alive฀with฀the฀apparition฀that ฀ he฀too฀lives, the฀son฀who฀died฀but฀did฀not฀arise฀three฀days฀after ฀ reeling฀this฀fish from฀the฀muddy฀Illinois,฀her฀boy฀gone฀fifteen฀years. ฀ But฀not. “This,฀last฀thing฀he฀touched฀alive฀in฀the฀world,”฀she฀sighs, ฀ shorthand for฀the฀car฀wreck,฀the฀phone฀call,฀how฀she฀never฀got฀to ฀ say฀goodbye. This฀yellowed,฀freezer-burned,฀power฀outage-thawed ฀ relic. She฀looms฀stricken฀and฀unguarded฀in฀the฀half-page ฀ full-color฀shot, slow฀news฀Sunday,฀wearing฀her฀best฀polyester฀top ฀ and฀matching฀slacks, gold฀lamé฀elastic฀slippers.฀Her฀bouffant’s฀lacquered฀stiff ฀ for฀the฀photographer who฀arrived฀late฀and฀drunk,฀certain฀his฀career฀bottomed ฀ on฀this฀catfish฀fillet. That’s฀his฀joke,฀though฀not฀the฀one฀I’d฀waited฀for, ฀ asking 57 irony฀to฀spike฀the฀postmodern฀punch,฀our฀hee-haw ฀ reprieve. When฀I฀spied฀the฀photo’s฀green-eyed฀kitty,฀Fate’s฀Tabby, ฀ stretching his฀claws฀toward฀the฀treasured฀fish,฀suddenly฀she’s ฀ everyone’s฀mother. ...