A Horse Named Sorrow

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216 48 My last night in San Fran­ cisco, I snug­ gled up in the sleep­ ing bag and put a can­ dle in each of ­ Jimmy’s may­ on­ naise jars so as to burn up what­ ever was left of him and wish him well. They ­ burned all night, and in the morn­ ing I ­ tossed the jars out the win­ dow to shat­ ter for the twins to find and mar­ vel at—a ­ deadman’s glass bones. I was gonna miss that sad lit­ tle ­ bay-windowed apart­ ment, with the bad paint in the halls, the grimy ­ gum-pocked stoop, the side­ walk where those twins were al­ ways up to some­ thing. I re­ mem­ bered them from a morn­ ing last win­ ter under dark­ en­ ing skies, Jimmy in the hos­ pi­ tal with pneu­ mo­ nia. Their ­ father was load­ ing his truck and they were stand­ ing shoul­ der to shoul­ der, their heads ­ cocked back and their ­ mouths wide open, catch­ ing the first drops of rain. Lit­ tle pul­ lets. I­ could’ve ­ stopped. Part of me ­ wanted to. I ­ didn’t dare. I ­ hoisted Chief Jo­ seph up on my shoul­ der and down the ­ stairs I went. I saw the ­ broken may­ on­ naise jars on the side­ walk, the la­ bels hold­ ing some of the ­ broken glass to­ gether. “Best”—and he was. I’d held him here when he fell into me in his old army coat—so, so thin—the day be­ fore he died. I ­ kicked the glass off the side­ walk and into the gut­ ter. Sorry, Jimmy, but it’s prob­ ably not safe for the twins. Doing what ­ needed to be done. ...