Cousin Eddie

Earl Edward Jobe, Jr. 1955-2004

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I’m working on (and off) on this longer piece on my friendship with my late cousin, Eddie. It’s made up of shorter pieces and poems, and here is a group of them. I have no idea what I will do with this, but I’m certain that Eddie would have liked me writing it.

For Eddie

That house up the street where they have so many cats.

A truck in the driveway on blocks, wheels gone.

That plethora of oil stains on the concrete

like the faded jail tattoos on old carnival workers

with names like Lefty or Clem.

The kids there play loudly on the street where few cars ever pass.

Whole summers can pass without a single car; it’s crazy.

The mosquitoes there can speak, but only in Acadian French.

You know the place I mean, don’t you, Eddie?

—

Hey, Eddie — Do you remember

when we talked all night

while long forgotten Jobe

family ghosts listened?

Just two boys in the glow

of an old kerosene lantern.

Cousins in Rains County, Texas.

Things go easier with time, Eddie.

A liar told me that.

Things seem random to me.

Good, bad, whatever.

Wherever you are now,

I remember you.

—

Say, Cuz —

do you ever wonder

how that first rose decided

to open?

—

The grass and the trees have a wholesome smell,

like soil mixed with life.

The sun shows us what the sky allows it to show.

Even the barn and the chickens seem like heaven.

Rains County in the summertime.

Visiting our grandparents for a couple of weeks,

cousins from two different suburban neighborhoods.

Cows and chickens? Barking dogs and police sirens

were far more prominent in our youth.

Eddie and Jimmie, the Jobe cousins.

We studied life and discussed it all.

You can only live one day at a time, we decided.

And how you feel about that makes no difference at all.

Eddie and I don’t speak for everyone,

but by god, we don’t speak in spite of them either.

—

Eddie told me that his plan

was to split the year into 13 months

of exactly 4 weeks each.

“There’ll be a couple of days left over.

They won’t count and we’ll hang out at the lake.

Like now.”

And Eddie leapt to his feet

and jumped off of the boat dock.

Cannonball, indeed.

—

Teens, we crashed the tent revival in Point, Texas.

Looking for girls.

My god, we had gall! What heathens!

You were almost ‘saved’ but I got you out of there.

I told you that the Bible is just old men

trying to explain what they don’t understand.

You know? Shallow thinkers.

—

The heart is right to cry out in need, Eddie.

Grandma Allie read it in my tea leaves.

–

My cousin Eddie didn’t rise up in the sky

and neither did Jesus. Eddie lived a wounded life, a short life,

like a carrot in the garden, partially eaten by a raccoon.

If his life had been a book

the pages would have been filled with confusion.

There was a pond beyond sight behind some woods,

Eddie and I would swim there.

A big turtle watched us and we watched back.

My cousin’s life was cut short

and when it was over he did not rise up into the sky,

and neither did Jesus.

And neither will you or I.

James Lee Jobe
06 AUGUST 2026

Until we meet again.

Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash