They had nothing in commonbesides being smart New Yorky jews,Carl was a creator and my motheran other…
while laughing listeninghis 2000-year-old man spinningin shiny blackness circlingmy plastic turntable hypnotizing
me in my bedroomdoor mandatory ajarcigarette smoke creep from my mother’sroom to mine seeping into every crevice
uninvited and stainingwhile the record re-playedeach time it ended, my index fingerrelocating the needle gingerly
keeping laughter coming for daysand at night I’d watch black and whitereruns on my tiny Sony trinitronabout a happy family whose father came home
every night even though he trippedon a single house stair, my finger lingeringon the dial turning the laugh track upand down low to high lower to highest
controlling and amplifying happiness betweenmy index finger and my thumb—Bless the creators (and bless those other types too)who spin their genius gifts into lifelines
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Note: The author is a poet and essayist whose mother died a week before Carl Reiner died.
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Photo by Pawel Janiak on Unsplash