Thank you to the obituary but the funeral wasn’t as funny as it should have been. You see, it should have been hilarious. There should have been dynamic colors and sounds. There should have been animals and puffy outfits. There should have been something worthwhile. Instead there was nothing, suits and tears. Imagine being told of a clown dying and expecting a speculator funeral showcase but instead receiving mundane mediocracy. It was enough to make me sick. I felt like I’d been tricked. A bunch of suited men and women without face paint, they probably weren’t even clowns. I had more make up on than anyone there. You understand how embarrassed I was? And this was a closed casket funeral too. I wanted very much to open the lid and see what the big deal was. Imagine if the clown in the box died wearing a funny face. Wouldn’t he want people to laugh one last time before his burial? Am I the only one with a sense of humor anymore? I know some people are afraid of clowns but the idea is so foolish that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge the phobia further. After the burial I walked around the cemetery looking at the gravestones. I began to make faces at them. Every single row of bodies received a silly face. I was so angry that I had to do this, childish as it was. I was so angry that I began to laugh hard and loud. No one came to me in concern and I ruined my face with wetness.
I’m a nurse. I’m in the business of care and pain management. I’m firm. Pain relief should be priority. Even when the doctor doesn’t agree I still help the patients. I have to. It’s my job. I don’t want them to suffer. It’s cruel. Being in a lonely hospital bed, staring at the walls, ceiling and television is no way to live. Imagine being surrounded by so many beeping machines and such, of course you’d want relief. They’re fragile. I feel that way. Of course they’re in pain and if I can relieve then I relieve. I won’t let them suffer so needlessly. If they buzz I run. I relieve. Trust that doing so doesn’t lead to addiction. No. I’ve never had a patient become a slur. Doing so instead leads to thankfulness and oh, such euphoria. Why buzz when you no longer suffer? Why buzz when pleasure has left you unable to lift even a finger? I satisfy. I relieve with the care and gentleness of a mother. When you’ve suffered for so long of course you’d want someone to whisk away worries and manage your pain so sufficiently that you’re left in brilliant states of bliss. As an angel, dress certainly doesn’t hurt, alas no wings for me. Oh, I do live to serve. I do live to assist. I care so dearly for them and I notice their affinity. It is accepted, respectfully, as are they.
I’ve been walking up and down for a while. These streets are lonely. People are cruel. They give dirty looks as if I’m a beast. I know this isn’t true. I am who I am. My life has led me here. Yesterday evening I saw a little boy sitting on the path. The boy was crying. I planned to walk on by but the boy’s crying began to anger me. What did he have to cry about? Past approach I stopped in front of the boy and asked what was wrong. The boy looked up at me, his eyes were stained red. He told me that his parents were fighting again. He said he left home because he didn’t want to see what would happen next. I looked behind him and asked him if his home was the one that seemed to be splitting down the middle. The boy nodded confirmation. I asked him if he had ever been struck. He nodded again. I wanted to take that boys hand and lead him to a better place, a place where he could be free from such violence, a place where he’d never have to cry from pain again. I felt for him, so much so that it physically hurt me to speak with him further. The boy asked where I was going. I said nowhere. He said “that sounds nice, to be nowhere.” I told him that’s wrong. He insisted, said “I want to walk with you.” I told him no, because my road doesn’t end. Cruel as it was I had to leave him there. He deserves a future, no matter if troubled.
Rickey Rivers Jr was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. He has been previously published with Fabula Argentea, Cabinet of Heed, Back Patio Press, (among other publications). https://storiesyoumightlike.wordpress.com/. You may or may not find something you like there. His third mini collection of 3×3 poems is available now: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07VDH6XG5