It’s been 18 years. Guess on some levels it doesn’t matter how many days that is, or how many months have gone by, or even if I think about it every day. I don’t – think about it every day, that is.
But today—and a few others, I cannot not think about him. It’s an appropriate piece for today, his birthday and since it's a birth-day of sorts for me, I guess it was inevitable that I think of him now, as I step off another cliff into the unknown.
So honey, tonight I will drink a shot of gin, and celebrate the unknown adventures that are in store for me, and celebrate you, the most interesting adventure of my life.
I cleaned up another mess today.
It may be the last one. I don't know. He always could hide them so
well, that it may take some time to be really sure.
The pattern was always the same:
"No-it's nothing. Don't look. It will go away. Really. It's nothing.
And then, later, sometimes much later, the inevitable:
"Can I come home? Is it ok for me to come home? Do you still love me?"
I hear him now, even as I put this check in the mail to clean up what I
hope is the final mess...just barely a whisper "Do you still love me?"
I am so angry I feel like I'm choking. Damn, he still can make me mad.
When he was here, all the messes seemed to be diminished by
his presents [sic]. He could make me feel, oh I don't know, just feel,
For all that he was not, there were all the things he was.
He was the only one to write me poetry.
Today is his birthday, and all I feel is anger
that the only way I can celebrate is to write this check,
and clean up another mess.
It's hard to party with the dead.