Page 101 of Perfect Playbook

I read:

Here lies Baker Shay, master of dough,

Her bakery bustling, her cakes a show.

With flour in clouds, she’d sneeze and bake,

Until one day, a sneeze she couldn’t shake.

Into the flour, her sneeze did land,

A dusty explosion, oh so grand!

But alas, poor Shay, couldn’t catch her breath,

And sneezed her way to floury death.

Now she rests, with a sprinkle of white,

In doughy heaven, she’ll bake through the night.

To Baker Shay, whose sneezes were her doom,

Rest in peace, sister, in your floury tomb!

I chuckle. “Okay. I get it.”

Shit. I hope they haven’t called me over to write one. I’m crap with rhymes but might manage a nice scathing limerick about her brothers dying from their assholes being too tight if given enough time.

“It doesn’t have to rhyme,” Nino says. “A lot do, but they don’t have to.”

Shay stares down at the book, her body language morphing into something less confident. “Most of the rhyming ones people prepare before coming to the party.”

I flip through and read a couple more. There’s one for Luis. One for Aunt Rita who I met years ago. It’s cute. Light-hearted. She died from a broken stiletto. It’s all part of making peace with death.

Shay turns the page and points. “I wrote you one,” she says, not looking up at me.

“All right, let me see it.” I read.

Here lies our Logan, hockey’s bright star,

On the ice, he’d shine near to far.

With stick in hand, he’d glide and strive,

But one fateful moment took his drive.

Caught in the net, tangled and tight,

He fought and struggled with all his might.

Alas, poor Logan, trapped in the mesh,

No more slap shots or victory’s fresh.

Now he rests in the rink’s embrace,

Forever frozen in his hockey grace.

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