Years ago, after Sand died, when the night sky was clear I'd make a point of taking a moment to talk to him. Just an occasional brief snippet as I'd walk to my car- maybe something a a bit longer on the rare nights I would go camping. When Sims passed a few years later I added him to the ongoing conversation.
Usually these short dialogues would just be me hurtling the agony I felt at their loss towards the sky, struggling to force some kind of connection from across that starlit ether.
After a while the frequency of these talks grew more sporadic- sometimes it'd just be couple of times a month, then other weeks it'd happen every other day- but they've never stopped. Honestly, I hope they never do.
Over the last few weeks though, I've noticed that the tenor of these little exchanges had subtly begun to change- instead of a wistful sadness, I'd just throw Sims "the nod" (he'd know what I mean), or a bright star would catch my eye and I'd find myself smiling and telling Sand to stay frosty. After a particularly rough day, I trudged towards my door and started grumbling that they had better be playing a damn good game of D&D right now, and just the thought of that made me feel happier. It's taken a long time, but I've finally found myself being drawn towards my love of them rather than just wallowing in the loss.
I miss them.
I love them.
I really wish I could talk to them.
But, by god, they had better be playing a damn good game of D&D right now.
1 comment:
As we grow older and we've buried so many people close to us, we sometimes find ourselves alone, surrounded by the souls of our dearly departed to keep us company. I find it necessary to only speak to them in hushed tones otherwise people start to think your crazy. I find comfort in that.
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