I received a birthday package from my mom; in it were all essentials to throw a party. Happy Birthday Plates, Happy Birthday Napkins, Happy Birthday Streamers, Happy Birthday Noisemakers, Happy Birthday Credit Card. She also sent me two Vonnegut books, which are a much needed change from the required Italian literature (the Italians have any amazing capacity for the desire to be depressed).
My mom also told me of the birthday party I missed. Apparently, on Sunday, my mom invited many of my friends over to the family house and had a surprise party. Surprise. They ate spaghetti and even got party favors. I haven't been to a party with favors since I went to St. Joseph's Elementary. At the head of the table was a mock-up Cass Trumbo: face, clothing, the whole kit and caboodle. There's pictures to prove it.
The Red, my old roommate, he tells me that my face made the pilgrimage back to 1915 Wedington, where I live when not skiing in the Alps. He tells me that given its current position, in the living room above the potted plant, the face comes off as some sort of shrine for the deceased. Though I've only been gone for a month, I'm already being mourned.
So if you have it in your heart to pay your respects to the dearly departed, several countries removed me, go and visit The Red, Bo, and whoever else is living in the house (it's more like a hotel, really); they could use the company, and my grave could use some flowers.
No comments:
Post a Comment