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.
4/21/93
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.
Sweetheart.”
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?”
Yes.
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,
something.
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.
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