I found myself beside the sea, or as close as I could come. The clouds veiled the sun, turning it lunar; casting an eerie gray light. The wind was blowing bitter and slapped against my exposed porcelain. I panted and heaved as I raced toward the water's edge. I kept running for something that I couldn't quite catch. I wasn't getting the desperate high I so fervently sought. It had worked the night previous...My mind spun its vaudevillian plates in a thousand different directions, each one wobbly and teetering in taunting anticipation of crashing to the ground. Sometimes I just need to hear that smashing sound. It's so satisfying. But I broke down, the tears streamed and undulated with the waves. I stood there looking out at the sea, atop a bench, staring into some imagined fork-in-the-road; the air icy and callous barring much else than trembling. I couldn't tell whether it was the chill or not. All I could think to do was run, so I took off once again. On the way I saw an older man, someone's grandfather, running the other direction. He had the warmest eyes, despite the cold. He was waving at everyone that passed him by; in cars, on foot. He looked straight at me, and waved with a bright smile. I don't know why, but I couldn't bring myself to wave back; all I could do was grin this ridiculous, sincere smile. Maybe that's when I got the idea, I don't really know. Soon I was heading out, and before I could realize, I had missed my turn miles back. That's when the idea struck, seemingly out of nowhere. I literally had no way of finding the place, which meant I would have to make a call to get directions. Which meant I would have to divulge my intentions. I know the second I placed the call I was to go through with it. It was like I wasn't moving of my own volition. I didn't stop to think for even a paltry second, I just kept rolling forward, how I realize I do anything. I knew it was going to raise some eyebrows and even more questions, but thankfully, they didn't get posed until later. I was oddly nearby. I was there within minutes. I stopped at the corner florist to pluck a single red rose. I felt silly only spending a dollar and half, but it's not like they could say anything. I was clearly distraught, like the few other morose sad-sacks that I'm sure wander in there from time to time. They must grow immune to it after a time. I turned into the huge expanse. The place was rather bustling, which seemed odd. It gave it a rather incongruent energy. I find it without much incident, despite the labyrinthic maze. It was like I was somewhere else. Someone else. I didn't know what I was going to say once I got there, I hadn't planned that far ahead. I also forget about the neighbor. I'd never been there since. But before the inevitable deluge, I did happen to manage a little chuckle when I saw "Whip" on the stone. I had often wondered if it was on there, and was glad to see it. It didn't take long for me to break into hysterics, releasing years and years of pent-up anger, resentment, and abandonment issues. It was so good to just be there, close to him. It's funny but I really don't recall what I said. I know I said I missed him, that's all I can remember. I sat there on my haunches, sobbing uncontrollably, for maybe a full five minutes, I don't know, time was meaningless; the cold unaffecting. It was almost warm curled up into that little ball. I delicately and meticulously draped the rose over the stone, as not to cover up any letters, and so it wouldn't blow into the abyss. I drew my hand to my lips and then to the stone. The last time I was there, I buried Pez. Twenty years coming. Twenty years. I couldn't quite believe it. He would have been a hundred this year. But then again he was always a hundred to me. He is my Platonic ideal of masculinity of what a man is supposed to be. My earliest and most significant role model. He saw the light in my eyes and the sincerity in my heart. I could do no wrong, even when I was turning off his ball game, just so he would chase me around the house. It's no wonder that my favorite meal is still just bread, cheese and salami. It satisfies that deep, swarthy part of my soul, the soul of the child that still radiates within me, that child that would never let anyone else sit in his chair or took comfort in sleeping in the room he died in every night. It all seems very hazy, like I was watching it from afar, not actually experiencing it. I had already left before I had time to even think about it.
Holidays kind of blow anyway. It's a lot of hassle and pomp for what reason? Everyday should be lived like a holiday. Otherwise, what's the point. Any sliver of happiness should be celebrated with that kind of vigor. They come so few and far between. Twenty five years, and I'm still thinking about him. I'm still feeling about him. I'll never be able to forget. Only children are that open to love, in that pure, undiluted form. Opening your heart to anyone guarantees pain at some point, as we are, but finite. But that which makes us finite makes us yearn to be all the more significant. There would be no real significance or consequence to life if we got all the do-overs we wanted. You have to make what little you have count. But knowing and doing are, what was once described to me as, "two sides of a grand canyon." They set you up with an old nag mule, wish you God speed and with a slap of his ass, you're off, provided you're iron-willed enough to even embark on the journey.
It's funny, turns of kindness never come from where you would expect them to. But every once in a while, someone will take one look at me, and get my number, just like that. It's an incredibly comforting feeling. I am usually quite suspicious of the kindness of strangers, as most people always want at least a little something for their generosity. But, I didn't get that feeling this time. And under normal circumstances, I would never accept, as I would find it impolite, and way too much, but this one, this one is tempting. I could barely hold back tears, even though I had an inkling that's what was going to be offered. I am always surprised when people talk about me at all, but really shocked when all they say are good things. That would have to be one hell of a reputation that preceded me to make that kind of impact. It still floors me every time. Not too often people are willing to give you something with literally nothing wanted in return. Everyone always has some self-serving purpose. It's those incredibly rare moments that just flip my whole cynical world upside down. It only begins to slowly mend the the thread-bare tatters that are my views on humanity, but at least it's something.
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