"I poured myself the stiffest drink my stomach could stand," thought: Conor would be proud of the man that I am - and listened to a friend's local band jam old Van Morrison covers. "Ma'am, it's a godawful night for a moon dance," and my dad used to sing along to "the stars up above in your eyes." It's a fantabulous night to make romance to my mother 'neath the cover of October skies.
But a California King is a world in and of itself when all that is left of the king reigns from a picture on the shelf.
Well here I am: the end-all, who's come to judge and decide whether all of God's reasons for letting you die are damnable, or worthy of praise. (O detestable pride, I liked you that way.)
So do I rage at the Potter for destroying the clay that he made like we're somehow entitled to more than this? Or do I praise the Maker for giving and taking away? If you taught me that life is not meaningless, then this life is not meaningless.
To dust we go, and from dust we came. Blessed be your name. Naked we come, and naked we remain. Blessed be your name.
Well I said, "I do" two months after my dad disappeared and he was supposed to be the priest that married me. Daughter, your father loved you more than I fear you will ever be able to see, but I need you to receive it, because there were nights that he'd fight to stay alive just to see you, Bree. (And I'd step out the front to toss up my keys and leave and breath a sigh of relief while he wept bitterly never believing I believed that: "He loved me!") Wife, your husband loved you more than his life, and I think that maybe he thought he gave you yours back. "O! Every old photograph is a painful reminder of losing what we had!
I was one with someone! (and now I am but a half)."
Dear world, I wrote to tell you that the sun is shining down on Southern California today, and I wish that you could be here to see it. In the end, maybe God will piece our bones back together again, and me and my dad's skeleton's will drive too fast over the whoop-de-doos in death valley, just like we did in my memories, before death started eating at his spine.
I am not fine. At least sometimes, I am not fine, and if only years gone by forget the pain and wounds heal over time, then it's just a different type of pain that comes to occupy my mind, like, "How could I be fine? How could you be fine?" And I start hearing these questions like the accusations that wake my sister up in the night, and leave her terrified to close her eyes because the demons never close their eyes (and I thought Jesus never closed his eyes but Christ, you sure seem blind sometimes).
Dear Dad, Van Morrison will always remind me of you. And it stones me to my soul to know that you were the ghost in our kitchen window, but not as much as it stoned you.
I hope you finally escaped that window frame that held you captive all these years.
Dear God, I've got a lot of fear, like are you big enough to handle all of my fear? And what exactly will "handling" it look like from here and: do you hear me? Do you hear us?
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