The Memorial

It was a memorial. Not one of stone or

cement. In the least likely of places. Not in a

cemetery or crypt. Not adorned with roses or

manicured grass, for which those feet

underneath it will never touch again. 

It was among the creeps and characters that

used to be his contemporaries, chatting

together. Drinking cheap beers that were

more suds than beer, smoking cheap

cigarettes with long drags and short breaths.

The decades old smoke hung around like his

laughter once did. 

A small wooden plaque, carved with a

soldering knife. A middle schooler’s shop

project, on a block of wood normally thrown

out; yet worth more than any moldy million

-dollar mausoleum. 

The words were as he wanted. Short and

sweet, above his favorite seat. The way they

remembered. The way those who did not

know could guess, it read, 

“Jimmy Miller laughed here from 1980- 2015.”