Instructions for My Mother’s Funeral

The Big Dipper

50 The Big Dipper It was the bar we went to after the bar named for the metal scoop of stars like the wire egg dipper you have to bend so you can lower the egg down into the dye. By the second pitcher, we can bend the constellation, push the night into a pocket where you can keep your mints, your matchbooks, the quarters from my tables. When the band comes on, you’ll find the words to their songs. The Dipper is windowless, a blue garage lit by beer and microphones. But I can see your foot hitting the floor, the singing dammed in your throat. All your life you’ve wanted to be that guy with the guitar. You want to dip it down like a woman, yank it back up. You want everyone to hear the strings against the hollow, to listen when you sing about that girl. Her hair is black, her eyes are coins, you’ll never find her in this darkness, but she’s the only one for you. ...