You and Me

So. Here we are.  Just you and me.  And by you I mean me.

Everybody who is coming to the party is here.  Oh sure, I sent invitations. I just didn't use those fancy cards with the fancy lettering. Or that embossed shit.  Maybe that was it.

Oh we don't have party favours here either.  There are not gift baskets for the guests.  There are no bells.  Nor whistles at this party.  No booze. No poles for the Daddy Issues Girls to swing from.  I was about to say there weren't any clowns, but hell, look at us!  I'd laugh, but there is no point.  Only you and me would hear it.

Again, by you, I mean me.

As the years go by, I get scared that I don't remember all the things we did.  All the things we were.  All the things we felt.  I will surely never forget her.  But I fear sometimes that those memories I cherish will become less vivid.  Afterall, that's all I have are those meomories.  I think sometimes that those times will never be recreated or times that even come close to those will never happen again.

The summer we married, we had so very little in terms of material.  But we had each other.  All the money we did have went to student loans.  A bit to pot, but mostly to rent and food.  We were living in Windsor where she was fulfilling the last few months of her lease and I was finishing the last two credits for my degree.
We both struggled to find odd jobs and we lived pretty frugally in a student house with other roomates and no air conditioning. One afternoon, we went down to the local mall, not to buy anything, but just to enjoy some respite from the heat.  That's where we invented the "mall game".   The mall game was essentially people watching.  The variant was picking out couples and picturing what they would look like having sex. Few couples were of the Brad and Angelina echelon. Needless to say, we giggled much.

I look back on those people today in a little different light.  No matter how ridiculous it may have seemed then, there was a beauty in their couplings.  Today, on some days, I feel the urge to tell them if it doesn't end in a bad hatred fuelled breakup, it will end with the pain of death.  But of course I keep quiet.  I don't want to soil their experiences.  I would never give up mine.

Later

Deaner

77 years

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Remembrance Day

It’s not too often I get like this anymore.  To tell the truth, I feel flattened of late.  I’m not too riled about much.  Annoyed perhaps, but I don’t feel the fire I used to have.  I’m not sure if it’s just old age, or am I just one of Skinner’s dogs in the steel cage, non-plussed by the electric current running through it.

Today is a little different.  I guess it’s the yesterday by now.  It’s 1:00 am on the day after Remembrance Day after all.  So for argument’s sake, we’ll call it yesterday, although it’s spilling over into today.  I’m feeling some fire.  Some would call it anger.  I just spent the day remembering my little brother in one side of my head while hearing utter bullshit from everyone on the other.

Remembering him as a kid, he was my opponent.  Glen and my older brother would be a team.  It wasn’t a plan to screw me as much as to involve him in the hockey, baseball, football, or whatever goofy game we could dream up.  Sure I lost those games.  They were unevenly matched.  But it involved Glen in the games.

As an adult, he was my teammate. I remember one time talking to him on the phone about how Nancy was having a rough time and going through an MS relapse and my job demanding so much at the time.  To add to the shittiness happening at the time, the roof on my house had developed a leak.  He and my dad showed up a week later, travelling down to Ohio to repair my roof.

Today I listened to politicians and newscasters talk about how our fallen fought for our freedom.  That’s where the anger of today sets in.  It’s my opinion, and be sure I keep this to myself, not since 1945 has a war by North American troops been fought for freedom. They can all tongue my hairy asshole and fondle my ever descending balls.  Glen died because of a falsified war which benefits only those who manufacture munitions and planes.

Glen was blown up by a suicide bomber.  It didn’t have to be. 

Someone has to step down from the jingoism first.

At this point Jack is telling me I should stop writing shit.

Mr. Daniels is likely right.

I haven’t felt fire in a while.  It used to be about women.

Later

Deaner

There were some long car trips.  Going home to see the family.  I'd rest my hand on the console.  She'd lightly rub the back of my hand. Inevitably we'd be holding hands.  I remember how her small hand felt in mine.

That's all.

I am really in no frame of mind to be writing right now.  Though, in a sober state I have no desire to put anything down.  With that disclaimer out of the way, and an overuse of the backspace key, I really hated her cold feet.

On a night like tonight, it was typical for the thermometer to sink to -20 degrees Centigrade.  And on nights like tonight, her small feet would send chills up my spine when her feet sought some warmth  on the back of my legs.

And today, I would give anything to feel the warmth that those chilly small feet gave me.

Later,

Deaner....

Hands up if you're lonely....