My Uncle Paul rose and found one day that the God he'd been confiding in and the wife and kids had forsaken him so he moved in with Grandma and she sought professional help. Twice a week henceforth after checking for clean socks and underpants, she popped him into her automobile and took him to the soporific office of Dr. Friendly. Paul trudged slowly towards progress. At week five, the shrink upped the dose on the sanity drug, complimented Grandmas hair blueing and showed them to the door. Back at home and being somewhere near the vicinity of noon, grandma cheerily inquired of her son what kind of sandwich he would like. Paul, reclining on the back porch, sweetly called back to her,"jelly sounds good", then calmly put the gun in his mouth. She heard one sound. It swept through all the little boxes of love notes, scattered precious locks of hair, childrens dreams laced with gossamer wings, borrowed dreams of unbuilt things, scorching the work bench- twisting all the wires, billions of tires lazily smoking as autumn winds swept away all of God's ashes. The jelly knive clattered from Gramdmas hand and the other one began clawing out there in front of her. A voice from nowhere whispered-damn the dirty trick- and just that fast- that shotgun had opened Paul's head and out went his life and by god, it was running fast, laughing...(look at me, I was 33) Human debris settles quite comfotably on a common back porch amongst faded summer sandals and trivial newspaper headlines retorting on how to lose the love handles...now my Uncle Paul lives in an urn, tucked away like moss near his mothers pillow. She's keeping track of the count, two sons down by their own hands, two to go. Occasionally between fitful short naps, she bolts from her bed to run for the porch...starts shrieking at the old jacaranda tree, "all boys need clean and decent underpants"