Cure Your Garments

As soon as father dies, we will gather with the rest of our seven siblings to perform a song he wrote. None of us has the complete musical notation, only fragments sealed in coded cylinders held as pendants on our chests. 

The lyrics will be conveyed during the reading of the last will and testament. The lawyer, a kind-eyed woman of Portuguese descent with a taste for leather and gleaming hubcaps, will mostly not cry during the affair. The throbby luminance of a bleeding plastic gum steak will finally meet us, eye to eye and reeking of hubris.