I miss Andrew. Every second. Every day. I bury my grief in the routine of life through which I move like a Mogadon zombie.
But I am angry with him too. With his dying breath, he promised that he would find me, somehow, somewhere. But he never came through. For two years now, I have put up with the lies and platitudes of mediums and spiritualists, receiving no solace for my fifty bucks. Yet still, I go back to them, a hungry bird desperate for a single crumb.
Today, my sister dragged me to the peewee football game. It was good to be out, but my jaw ached from holding that painted clown smile. I have no memory of the game. I just focussed on the officials, remembering Andrew in his black and white humbug shirt and the hat that never quite seemed to fit.
After getting home, I plonked myself down at the kitchen table, poured myself a large Chardonnay and tried not to think about the pile of clothes waiting to be ironed. I bathed in the glow from my android and started deleting the photos I had taken at the game while on automatic.
I brought the last one up and froze, my finger hovering above delete.
Staring up to where I was perched on the bleachers, his thumb raised in triumph and his face wearing that infectious, meaty smile, was Andrew. My Andrew. He had come through for me! My heart threatened to explode.
“The hat still doesn’t fit you, Andrew!” I cried, breaking open the dam and sending Niagara tears flooding onto the table.
I will never forget him, but I have to let go. I know that now. The thunder cloud bruises I wear on my soul will heal, and the sun will shine again.
This was a beautiful day.
But I am angry with him too. With his dying breath, he promised that he would find me, somehow, somewhere. But he never came through. For two years now, I have put up with the lies and platitudes of mediums and spiritualists, receiving no solace for my fifty bucks. Yet still, I go back to them, a hungry bird desperate for a single crumb.
Today, my sister dragged me to the peewee football game. It was good to be out, but my jaw ached from holding that painted clown smile. I have no memory of the game. I just focussed on the officials, remembering Andrew in his black and white humbug shirt and the hat that never quite seemed to fit.
After getting home, I plonked myself down at the kitchen table, poured myself a large Chardonnay and tried not to think about the pile of clothes waiting to be ironed. I bathed in the glow from my android and started deleting the photos I had taken at the game while on automatic.
I brought the last one up and froze, my finger hovering above delete.
Staring up to where I was perched on the bleachers, his thumb raised in triumph and his face wearing that infectious, meaty smile, was Andrew. My Andrew. He had come through for me! My heart threatened to explode.
“The hat still doesn’t fit you, Andrew!” I cried, breaking open the dam and sending Niagara tears flooding onto the table.
I will never forget him, but I have to let go. I know that now. The thunder cloud bruises I wear on my soul will heal, and the sun will shine again.
This was a beautiful day.
