What’s up, diary?
This was a sad week for our apartment building. Our neighbor downstairs and to the right, the Captain, died. He was a funny guy. His apartment looked like a bomb had hit it and on the walls he had guns and two war maps. The Captain liked to swing with us kids out on the playground. Sure, he was 59 years old, but he played like a 12 year old. Mom told me once that the Captain had been hit in the head with a bullet when he was younger. Since then he’s been a little wacky.
“Same to you,” I said. “Do you think that us kids are wacky too just because we like to swing on the swings??”
The Captain died of a sport’s injury. He got so mad when his favorite football team was losing in the playoffs. His heart stopped during half-time.
I’m sad about the Captain. He was a good friend. He wasn’t wacky at all. For example, the Captain told us once about when he and a friend had gone out to catch lobsters. The Captain punched holes in the lid of the bucket so that the lobsters could breathe. Then he let them go. A man who cares about lobsters just can’t be wacky.
When the Captain was alive he used to always talk about losing his mind. Tomorrow Arnold and I are going to go look for the Captain’s mind. We’re going to put it in a jar. But we have to remember to punch holes in the lid so that his mind can breathe.
The Captain doesn’t have any relatives left. The local authorities are going to have to pay for his funeral. I doubt anyone will even go. But Arnold and I are. Even though we’re not related to him. I’m thinking of reading a poem that I wrote myself:
Poem to a Dead Friend
Your funeral is for eternity,
paid for by the city.
You played like a little kitty,
with lots of dignity.
You were a really good friendly. Amen.
“It should be: You were a really good FRIEND,” Arnold corrected me when I read it to him.
“No it shouldn’t,” I said, “because then it doesn’t rhyme.”
Farewell to our friend,