IF YOU WERE HERE
IF YOU WERE HERE
It’s a beautiful fall day. Where did summer go? It was only hot for a few days in July. Now we’re at the tail end of September. Almost cool enough for a sweater. It rained yesterday and everything smelled deliciously of wet earth but the sun is out now and the sky is blue again. In the old days, you’d appear at my door asking if I wanted to get lunch. I’d put my shoes on and you’d drive us into town in your Mustang with the top down. It’s Monday, and Woodstock isn’t crowded until Friday, so It would be easy to park. We always ate in Shindig, where the waitress didn’t have to ask us what we wanted because we always ordered the same things. You had a cheeseburger and fries. She ‘d just nod and smile and bring us our food. And here I stop. Shindig closed during Covid. I can’t remember what I ate. And you aren’t knocking on the door.
Oh my heart—the ongoingness of loss. As simple and normal as a burger and fries or the closing of a favored lunch spot. So damn tender, Abby.
Missing someone so much somehow fills in the absence so we see the outline.