I’m one of Timmy’s girls

I remember little me. Asking so many questions in my head. Voiceless voice box. Silent chatter. I wanted to know.

Sometimes the eyes of the men at the Chip Club were sad and others were delighted. Most were lonely. All were loyal.

They remember little me. But recognize me as my mother now because time stopped in that house the moment it was built.

I’m one of Timmy’s girls. They always say they thought so. Asking how my mother is.

I know some names on the board filled with golden plates up there of the dead guys - all good, all died young. I like to pick out my uncle. And great one. Then grandpa. I can’t remember if he was on there. Danny meant more anyway. And Buster. Buster. Yeah. Did you know him? The old timers might.

They’re all old timers to me. The Irish prayers on sinful faded walls. The railing spewed splinters only pocket knives could remove. The pool table coughed chalk and the sticks were always someone's but still everyone's. The deep leather seats had cigarette breath since the late 60’s - a fragrance both potent and wholesome; the fragrance of my city’s home. The only aroma that reminds me of religion.

I remember little me. She’s in the room with me, inside me. Except now my mouth moves. My voice box volume is at its max. All of my questions, I ask them. I’m still one of Timmy’s girls but I came to ask what you’re still doing here.

Six drunk ghosts of men still sitting in the chair they died in, raise their glasses to me.

The Chippewa Chief in the portrait smirks and says,

I remember little you, too.