All flesh is frail, Matty-lumpkin. Stick it in a place where the steel hangers don't bang no more. For when that southern-fried mandolin-picker with the discernible lisp started trackin' mud across the the fabric of your soul, the window-washer made melody most delightful and sweet.
You were going to finish that last sentence to say “sweetbreads,” weren't you? I know you were. You know, I remember every last time you ate organ meats since the time you were about twelve. You liked the feel of those calf lungs in your mouth. You used to tell me that they were “puffy,” and the hearts you said were “muscle-y,” and the testicles were “rubbery,” and the sweetbreads were “slickery.” God bless you, Honey-child, for you never turned down a heaping, steaming platter of beef testicles and calf tripe. Little baby cows and big old steers. Hah.
And when you looked at it all, from a distance of years and a distance of miles, you saw the years roll along like a beautiful minty carpet...rolling and rolling and keeping the dirty little farmers from getting their dirty little bootprints all over the pristine carpet of your soul.
Do you remember the milk house? Do you remember the smell of the raw milk in the milk house? Do you remember how that awful thing happened out behind the milk house? No one remembers it but everyone feels it. It spreads out like ripples in a pond, Honey-child.
Ripples in a pond.
(Stay tuned for the rest of the story, Honey-child)
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