4-18-24

My name is a eulogy; isn’t that right?

It sticks and it starts to boil, but doesn’t

Overflow; like her life, like mine, like ours

Connie Francis 

won Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts at 14,

Right here in New York City

And Patricia? Oh she got married;

haven’t you heard? 

19 years old! and to a sailor! 

He’s from New York, he’ll take her there.

The jury’s not out for Trisha, you’ll see.

But in 1969 Judy died, and

I guess that was the start of the decline

You couldn’t have it all, could you

And I remember the tea, poured into mugs

And sipped delicately, looking out the window

Thinking of when the leaves would turn 

Orange again, and red again, and yellow

And she poured milk and sugar and tea into a 

Smaller cup, for her grandson,

The one who sang and danced for her,

Who idolized her pearls and her furs

And her blonde pageboy wig she wore

Just for fun

But the ache is real too, and lately

I think what if I just started telling 

People I lost a parent,

Wouldn’t that still be true?

What is a parent and is it the one who birthed you? Or is it the one who gave you life?

What’s the difference? What if it’s the one

Who gave up her life,

So that you could be here? What if?

When Patricia died there was no fanfare,

There was no obituary, no big Hollywood funeral, no parade of roses and daffodils thrown against the hood of the car,

No veils over the faces; Jackie Kennedy

No one knew. But I knew. I knew.

And my eulogy goes like this; 

It’s in all the photos I make, and every detail I slip in that’s a part of her

Every costume jewelry earring,

And every glove and hat and string of pearls

It’s the bandana and her doll;

It’s her polyester ball gown; draped against the body

Of the aging starlet; it’s all of that

And she’d risk me, and she told me that, 

But what she really risked was her own life,

And she cried and I didn’t call, and I should have called,

All the goings on down there,

In Brooklyn,

With your Kodak,

And I don’t mean a camera

Bye bye for now, darlin boy

Every night she dances on that stage,

And every night there is a standing ovation;

For Trisha has come home at last