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Some Really Hard Shit To Get Through

David J. Thompson

Your Uncle Jesus is here, my mom yelled
to me upstairs over the barking of our Black Lab.
He was sitting at the kitchen table when
I got down there. How you doing, kid?
Jesus asked as he shook my hand real hard.
I loved the way he always called me kid,
and seemed happy to shoot baskets in the driveway
or play catch with me. Even I noticed, though,
that he didn’t look good – real skinny, dirty,
kind of sad. You look like hell, my dad said
to him. What have you been up to? Well,
Jesus replied with a grin, cut me some slack,
will you? I’ve been out praying and fasting
in the fucking wilderness for the last forty days
and now I need a break, not a lot of bullshit
about my grooming from my older brother.
My dad just laughed, gave him a playful slap
on the head, told him he’d always been batshit crazy.
My mom warned them both to watch their language,
then asked Jesus if grilled cheese and tomato soup
sounded good for lunch.


That night, when I let the dog out to pee
right before bed, I saw Jesus sitting alone
at our rusty old swing set. I walked over,
asked him, Whatcha doin’, Uncle Jesus?
Nothing much, kid, he answered. He had
a tiny cigarette that didn’t look or smell
like one of my mom’s Pall Malls in one hand,
and a can of one of my dad’s Budweisers
in the other. After a few moments of silence,
he said, This seems pretty good to me now,
you know. I mean the whole house, and family,
and dog thing, but I guess it just wasn’t meant
for someone like me, you know what I mean, kid?
Sure, I replied even though I’m sure he knew
I was way too young to understand any of that.
Any-hoo, he went on, I’ll be gone before
you guys all get up tomorrow morning
because I got some really hard shit to get through
with the Romans and all, but no matter what
you hear, don’t worry about me, ok, kid?
I’ll be just fine, even if it sounds pretty rough.
Sure, I repeated, hoping the darkness was hiding
that I was beginning to cry. He stood up, flicked
what was left of the cigarette off into the lawn,
handed me the beer which he said I was old enough
to finish for him. He tousled my hair, reminded me
again not to worry, he’d be back for sure sometime,
and then I watched him walk away. On the back steps
he stopped, and, silhouetted by the porch light,
he gave me a weak wave and a tired smile.
I called the dog, then tried to wipe away my tears,
mixed for the first time that night with the taste
of beer turned warm and bitter.

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