What's Left of Jan

I put out my cigarette
Before walking into the house

The last thing I need is another lecture
From Mom about how smoking
Killed my father

I'd like to remind her that smoking didn't kill Dad
AIDS did--but I might as well take a knife
And put it through her eye

My father's trysts with other men
Began in the 70's
And they didn't stop
Not even when the 80's rolled around
And it became pretty clear
That if homosexuality was a choice
It sure as fuck wasn't healthy choice

Around here, though, to this day
We say Dad died of 'smoking'

The place is a pigsty
Since the lesbian maid
Ran off and cloistered herself

My sleazy older brother is already waiting for me
When I walk into the house

He still dresses the way he did when we were kids
Distinguishing himself as one of those guys
Who never quite made it out of the disco era

At least he finally shaved off
That ridiculous mustache
That made him look like the in-bred twin
Of Tom Selleck

'Marsh!' he yells at me
Shortening my name
For absolutely no reason

He comes over and hugs me
And--of course--grabs my ass

'You're disgusting,' I say
Pulling away

'What,' he says, 'It's not like we're blood relatives.'
'Our parents got married forty-five years ago, Greg.'
'And you look just as hot now as you did back then.'
'You're depraved.  What would you have done if I had asked Dad out on a date?'
'Good thing you didn't.  Then you'd have AIDS.'
'I hate you.  And stop asking Mom out on dates.  It really freaks her out.  She's just too nice to tell you.'
'Hey!  She said she was flattered!'

I don't listen to whatever else he has to say
I just head into the kitchen

Mom is sitting at the table
With Pete and Cindy

I used to like Pete
Until he married a woman half his age
Who we all assumed was a prostitute
I'll admit, he's aged the best out of all of us

Cindy disappoints me every time I see her
It's not her fault
When you peak at seven
Life becomes one long stream
Of people looking at you
With silent resignation

'Marsh, thank god you're here.'

Mom gets up to hug me

She still looks decent for her age
But ever since my father died
She's become a whore for attention

She secretly cherishes any event or situation
That allows her to be a focal point
And my sister's death is no exception

'I smell smoooooke,' my mom whispers in my ear
Cheerily, but with a nice healthy dollop of warning
Letting the 'o' become a bouncing ball
Ringing out a song of judgment

When she pulls back, all that I see is the face of a woman
Torn apart by grief

Lately, my mother's taken to acting
By performing with a local community group
And when I say 'taken to' I mean the way a duck takes
To eating bread out of your hand
While it subsequently shits in your picnic basket

'Where's Bobby,' I ask
'Couldn't make it,' Cindy says, picking at one of her cuticles
'Couldn't make it,' I repeat, stumped, 'Jan is dead.'
'They never really bonded,' Pete offered, shrugging his soldiers

I guess that's true
I can't even remember one instance
Of them speaking to each other

'Where is she,' I ask
'Up in your room,' Mom says, dealing out cards to Pete and Cindy
'What do you mean "up in our room,"' I ask
'Well,' says my mother, a forced tear being pushed out of her eye
'Where else would she be?'

. . . . .

I found the urn resting against the pink pillow
On my sister's bed

Mom had even pulled the blanket up to it
So it looked like my sister had simply transformed
Into a tiny jar
That was taking a nap

Poor Jan

She didn't have the easiest life

Oh sure, Bobby was in a wheelchair
And Greg was arrested for buying child pornography
(For what he claimed was for a cabaret act/political statement piece he was working on)
Cindy had the eating disorder
Pete may or may not have married a whore
Dad died of AIDS
The maid was a lesbian
Mom was one one-hundredth of the person she probably could have been

But Jan still seemed like the sad one

I remember the summer we all took a Musical Theatre Performance Class
But Jan couldn't sing or dance
So we asked her friend instead--who also happened to be named Jan
And we liked her so much
We just started pretending she was the real Jan

That only lasted that one summer though
Then Fake Jan moved to California with her father
And ended up being the victim of a serial killer
Known as Gilligan

Life is such a fucking pumpkin pie sometimes

I sat down next to my sister on the bed
And lovingly stroked
The cool, cheap metal
Where her cheek would be

The urn was tarnished and sad
It was the color of that stuff around the burners
Or an unclean stove

My mother had spared every expense
To make sure Jan's eternity
Would be just as lackluster as her life

'I'm sorry, Jan,' I said, 'I'm sorry for...'

And I stopped
Because, as is often the case--

I didn't know where to begin