My Potato in Watson (Part Two)

I made a stop in Tullamore to visit my mother before continuing on home to Russian River. After such a long journey I was in desperate need of a nice home-cooked meal. She always made the best goulash.

We sat in the kitchen making dinner and talking about how when I was a kid I used to eat anything and everything in sight; a glass Christmas ornament off the tree, ants on the sidewalk, an entire box of chalk. We reminisced and laughed until our abs hurt. I sliced raw chicken as mom peeled potatoes...and that's when I heard it. A familiar voice, only this voice was screaming.

I threw down the chicken and ran over to my mother, karate chopping the knife out of her hands. There wasn't much skin left on that potato, but when I saw those eyes, I knew it was Rourke.

"Rourke, nooooooo!" I screamed holding him, or what was left of him, in my salmonella covered hands.

He whispered one soft, "I always loved you," and then died.

I cried for nearly an hour with mom at my side. She wasn't able to understand the connection that Rourke and I had had, just because he was a potato.

I yelled "Vegist!" and grabbed my poor dead love and ran out the door.

I drove back home and buried him two feet in the ground beneath the giant redwood in my backyard.