My brother and sis-in-law have volunteered their home for a gathering of some sort. Last night I dreamed I was there, with all the people wanting to tell me how sorry they were, and I answered the phone. It was a collect call from Chris. I refused it, thinking it a sick joke, and heard his voice, begging me to accept.
That was all of his voice I got to hear. I woke up and cried some more.
Is it sick, that I keep calling his cell phone, listening to his last message just to hear his voice? I don’t even know where the damn phone is. If it was on him, it will be in the medical examiner’s office. If it wasn’t, the motel manager is holding it for ransom.
Today I want to throw out everything that wasn’t his. None of this matters to me anymore, I just want to crawl in a closet with one of his socks.
But I have to go on. I have to make “arrangements.” What a pretty little euphemism for adding insult to injury, heaping pain and pressure on someone who really doesn’t need any more…
For anyone who’s ever wondered, if that last paragraph were an obituary, it would have cost me twenty dollars, by the character count. And that’s only in one paper, though the Star and Citizen are one and the same. They don’t admit it because they can charge more the other way.