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At the Dedication
- Red Hen Press
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92 At the Dedication I didn’t know how to say to the crowd I hardly knew the man. I was just shy of five when he died, and remember him the way most children remember their early-deceased uncles, through a line of untied images. Him on a slow climb from his Mercedes, sporting black gloves. Him standing with strained posture on the deck of some stairs, hair gone transparent from treatment, and a face pleased by afternoon sun. I also recall flying a gull feather down his plot —it, just behind the descending casket. How could I tell them that was all I could share? The crowd was a night full of knuckled raccoon hands, scraping for crayfish and still-meaty bones in the Clatskanie River, just outside the banquet hall glass. And Christ they were kind, offering cheese, and orange punch, and rum cake, and two nights at an inn, and Cub Scouts holding stiff flags at the ceremony the next day. What could I give them back? I am no ambassador to the dead, no dignitary worthy of write-offs. That was the first time I had ever touched a mayor. I wanted to say to her: “The only ghosts I know are still living. One squats on the hill above my house, 93 drinking wine, surrounded by swords and stuffed animals. Two more sleep alone. This uncle you’ve bought me to speak for, I’m no authority on him.” Except she was wearing all pink and pearls, and wouldn’t have understood. So I did my best to look well-dressed, commanded the podium. Tried to be charming. ...