I'm out on the deck at the NH house. It's sometime well after sunset. Bill, McCarthy and I came up this morning to do final prep work for this year's rental season. We had a long, solid day of accomplishments, and now they're inside, enjoying well-earned shut-eye.
I'm relaxing out on the deck. And looking up at the sky; there are wisps of clouds floating around, but there's this one bright star that's been drawing my attention. It's just a star, but it sets my mind to drifting, and as is often the case; my mind drifts to your memory.
It dawns on me that this chapter of my family's life (having a deck to hang out on) fell in to place after you left us.
The absolute shit that led up to this had already happened, but this specific part of the play hadn't been written yet.
And that sucks. A lot. Because I know you would have loved to have enjoyed this kind of a setting. The wind-driven clouds above, the gently waving tree branches, the faint shimmering moonlight off the water's surface.
As I listen to the lap of the waves on the shore's edge, I think of how they'd be a perfect backdrop to one of your tales. Maybe another poem pertaining to an unfortunate soul from the sea. Or, some equally enrapturing story about some some sorry sot, caught up in some equally unfortunate affair. Or perhaps a fortunate fellow who bests the gods in some manner.
It matters not, I guess. We're left to envision both the tales you told...and you as the teller.
I just glanced up to stretch my neck a bit. The same star is there (of course).
And it sets my mind back to thoughts of you again.
We miss the hell out of you, Russ.
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