cellophane perfume and the Shadows

My arm is holding molecules of days.  Last erased by the hotel shower in Glendale or Glenwood, CO, it doesn't much matter which.  My arm carries little pieces of my family home with me.  At the service it was weighted accordingly, it was meant to be happy like, death, oh what, that...But it was weighted happiness like death, there's that.  We cried anyway and it made him feel sadly frustrated so he made the lights shut off.  He never liked crying much.  He hardly ever found any crying he couldn't put on it's back and see a reason why it shouldn't be transformed.  He was gifted that way.  I can smell a couple of my cousins and BBQ.  I can smell the room itself where the service was held and keep thinking of his youngest daughter and Oreo cookies.  Today I am keeping to a strict box-a-wine/coffee ratio, which, if it works will let me sleep.  I can go back to be upset by more worldly things.  Always upset.  The ethereal can just float away, the coffee says.  The ethereal is surrounding you, says the wine.  I am in it and out of it at the same time, so there's still a list of things that need to be done, which keeps one busy so sadness can't creep in and get all over the place like choking smoke.  We will go on.  That's true and real.  We will go on in shadows, the darkness of which could be engulfing, or on sunny days could be a stark partner, walking up the street with us.  Partners in that we are fixed together at the foot, with all our steps.