March 12, 2010 § 2 Comments

A dark, rainy Friday morning makes me miss him quite a bit. He would have said, “Let’s go for a drive, Trout.” He would have written a note the night before that said, “Will do dishes in the morning”. Instead, at five a.m., he would arrive over my bed, like the first bit of sun at dawn, and say, “Feel like pancakes?” The dishes would wait.

There would be a nice lull of a hum in the truck and the trees would appear and disappear through the passenger window as I stared up at the fading indigo sky. The stereo would speak to me at just the right volume and his fingers would tap the steering wheel softly as though he could play the guitar, the drums and the bass all at once. In my mind, he could. And when we drove in the hushed winter before light, I would feel full of all the seasons that had not yet sprung; I felt full of all the days I did not know I wouldn’t get to have.


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