(no subject)
If you're reading this, I'm probably not around anymore...
There's dirt under my nails. I don't know a fuckin' thing about gardening, but I don't have it in me to let his flowers die. It seems like a part of him, one of the only parts any of us have left, his ashes scattered in the dirt under the cascading blue bells and morning glories, the new, fragile vegetable plants in the cleared land beyond. I tend them all, not because I really give a shit about plants or any of that, but because he loved them. Because he would've wanted me to.
Now, with the sun drooping low in the sky, I'm sitting at the bar, a drink resting on the counter and a joint smoldering in an ashtray nearby. In front of me, there's a notebook. Worn around the edges, not much different than the journal I only sporadically remember to write in, but the handwriting scattered across the page isn't mine.
I've known it was there for years, I've even pulled it out once or twice over the last couple weeks, but this is the first time I've actually read through it. I'm not sure if this is something I should be doing with Tom, or maybe in private, but I feel like there are things in it that are meant for him and him alone. Things that he should read without me looking over his shoulder. Likewise, I feel like this is something I need to do on my own, but I can't quite bare finding a quiet place alone to do it. At least with people around, I've got a reason to keep it together.
The last few weeks have been hard. Getting harder. Abby, Angua, the list of people who aren't here is getting longer and longer, but I'm still too preoccupied with the ghost of Mike fuckin' Pinocchio to really care as much as I should.
Reaching for the joint and taking a deep drag, humming quietly along with the music playing on the radio, I turn the page, glancing up and managing a crooked smile when I hear somebody slip through the front door.
[[Find him in The Winchester in the early evening. He won't try and hide the journal, but I doubt he'll share what's in it, either. Still, this is a decent time to meet him, and a great time for friends to come along and say hey. ST/LT more than welcome. No limit.]]
There's dirt under my nails. I don't know a fuckin' thing about gardening, but I don't have it in me to let his flowers die. It seems like a part of him, one of the only parts any of us have left, his ashes scattered in the dirt under the cascading blue bells and morning glories, the new, fragile vegetable plants in the cleared land beyond. I tend them all, not because I really give a shit about plants or any of that, but because he loved them. Because he would've wanted me to.
Now, with the sun drooping low in the sky, I'm sitting at the bar, a drink resting on the counter and a joint smoldering in an ashtray nearby. In front of me, there's a notebook. Worn around the edges, not much different than the journal I only sporadically remember to write in, but the handwriting scattered across the page isn't mine.
I've known it was there for years, I've even pulled it out once or twice over the last couple weeks, but this is the first time I've actually read through it. I'm not sure if this is something I should be doing with Tom, or maybe in private, but I feel like there are things in it that are meant for him and him alone. Things that he should read without me looking over his shoulder. Likewise, I feel like this is something I need to do on my own, but I can't quite bare finding a quiet place alone to do it. At least with people around, I've got a reason to keep it together.
The last few weeks have been hard. Getting harder. Abby, Angua, the list of people who aren't here is getting longer and longer, but I'm still too preoccupied with the ghost of Mike fuckin' Pinocchio to really care as much as I should.
Reaching for the joint and taking a deep drag, humming quietly along with the music playing on the radio, I turn the page, glancing up and managing a crooked smile when I hear somebody slip through the front door.
[[Find him in The Winchester in the early evening. He won't try and hide the journal, but I doubt he'll share what's in it, either. Still, this is a decent time to meet him, and a great time for friends to come along and say hey. ST/LT more than welcome. No limit.]]