I wish you were still here, a part of us. Someone I could call on, for a beer, a shoulder for support and an ear for my grumbles. It ended so suddenly, trying to explain it hurts more.
Almost 8 years and the pain subsists, I smile thinking of the good times, frolicking about with women and laughing at ourselves.
At times of grief or need I look to you for solace, your spirit guiding my steps.
You were too young for your fate; much Bashing was left in your blood.
I can spend all afternoon with you, the sun shining above; just you and me and the sea, not caring about what could’ve been, but sharing all that we already have.
So surly and rambunctious with those choice cuts, I pour a little more on your stone.
How does it feel being next to Ken?
Or Velva at my shoe?
Do you share beer in the heavens like this?
This round is on me.
It’s so quiet, and the wind gently brushes the chimes in the trees.
Flowers being smelled before set to rest, some clean the stone off so it’s lustrous and pure. But I leave that to others, for a mess is all I’ll leave, of bottles we drink and flowers for your memory.
The sheer enormity in the number of names astonishes our mortality and some just wander aimlessly, reading one tombstone . . . and then the next.
One thing can’t be avoided . . . the finality of being in the ground.
The rest is the meditation in photos. We love you Billy.
A shout out to the LBC . . .