Scattered

It had been a long time since I had last seen him.

(786 days, 10 hours and 37 minutes, but hey, who’s counting, right?)

That last meeting wasn’t exactly pleasant either. If my memory serves me right, the night culminated with me crying and him drunk, nursing a fat lip with a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. And the only thing we could possibly agree on was the notion that we should never see each other ever again. We were toxic.

So I moved out and got a job in the City; he started dating a “dancer” and the band took off like a fucking rocket. That was history.

Until almost a week ago when a disheartening phone call threatened to take a big, steaming dump on our separate tranquility.

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“-may she find peace in the next life.” the minister concluded the service and stood back for family and friends to say their final farewells. I could hear Moreen’s lone, piercing sob echo tormentingly throughout the ancient cathedral, while my own silent tears streamed down my already puffy, discolored face. Slowly, the grieving crowd left their pews to pass our fallen friend for one last time.

I was never one to handle death gracefully. Nor do I think that I have ever really come to terms with a loved one’s passing in my entire life. It all just feels like an elaborate hoax, that they’re still alive, but just can’t show themselves to me anymore. Normally, this belief, or perhaps more appropriately this delusion is the one thing that helps me face the world after someone dies. But for some reason, this time the thought just made me more depressed than anything.

Which, or course, in retrospect was probably the reason I wound up in his arms again after the funeral.