Patty

Do it all tonight! I mean it, do it all tonight! Tomorrow the sky will turn blood red and run the way of the Indians, and the rivers will flow back upstream and disperse themselves in the headwater banks. I will retreat north and entomb myself in an ice cave built for one. Heads will go over heels and heels over heads, all that has come before will come again. You know the story.
We sent the women to bed early as the day has been long and that is their time, or at least I suppose. We could drag this night out indefinitely, if it would only stay dark. I deny the sun, I embrace the stars. Let’s sit on the porch with sunglasses on, extremely dark sunglasses on, until the sun goes down again. Might as well have another. Right?
You left at the end of summer two years ago and I thought my world was crumbling a little. You guys left virtual post-its on my screen that made me sit in a corner for an hour. One bad decision followed another it seemed, a few minor good ones along the way as well. Life was happy at once, but foreboding. I took a jet ski into the middle of Lake Lanier at 50 MPH and abruptly stopped and sat there for hours with my head in my hands.
Tonight you were back, and as always, for a few hours I pretended like everything was as it was. I don’t make it your way as often so you do not have the same benefit. We drank stupid things, said silly things, made pacts with the things we didn’t say. We always do that, don’t we? The crook of my arm tonight made a woman’s inner thighs. I haven’t spoken of masturbation during our last three meetings. Progress?
Your father’s death hit me cold like too much ice cream too quickly, it lasted for days though. The old wives’ tale of putting the cold in the palm of your hand didn’t work either. I thought Three Stooges, Nightly Business Report, mid-evening dinner and cigarettes on the porch. I thought my father, and what I would do, and unknowing, fathomless. Selfishly I have gotten to see you more. I wish it could all go back to the way it was.
Tonight I am dreaming cold on this hot November night. This all not real the – heartbreak, mourning, glee and substance. I wait for the morning. Sunglasses on, I will deny the sun when it rises. Give it the finger for once and welcome its return.
St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland once, but long before, he was just Patrick and a group of sailors offered their nipples to him just to say “welcome”. I don’t know what it all means but it seems a good way to end.