Sadness and the smell of markers

I am driving and hit by that wave of sadness and it is neither unusual or unexpected
Home is up the mountain. The sun is setting. And the music on the radio reminds me of my son. Ethan… there is so much I miss about you.
Grief is such a selfish thing. It is about me and my feelings and what I lost. It isn’t about who I lost… but what I miss, what relates to me and my pain.
I am lost in thoughts and I take the mountain curves under a beautiful vermillion sunset… briefly thinking about the Scottish broom blooming along the highway
And the places where it has been hacked up and carted away.
I know this about Ethan… that in a specific way, he “got” me like no one else.
And I could riff on some idea, and he wouldn’t make a face or walk off
He could laugh or join me… and add comments and color…
And it let me walk down these paths in our discourse
of wild imagination. Or journeys into the absurd and strange and trivial… I found someone to come with me on the journey
And it didn’t make me feel stupid or lost. To play with words or concepts or ideas.
And find in those, new places..
But now I do walk those paths alone.
And I share with no one… at least not at length.
Lest they remind me that I am repeating myself
Or offer that half smirk that says that and more.
Or simply ignore it as another random comment and go on with something else.
I drive home feeling sorry for myself
Singing to “Black Hole Sun” not knowing the significance of the day
Thinking about the box of watercolor markers
With the fruity smells and trying to remember what smell went with what color.


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