it's raining again

I miss him tonight, more than I usually do, and I don't really know why. Maybe because my daughter turned sixteen and he wasn't there to dance with her, or maybe because my son, the boy who looks nothing like him yet carries his name, is starting to give me glimpses of the man he's growing into and what I'm seeing has no logical reason to be as familiar as it is.

It's raining tonight. Maybe that's it.

He hated the rain. I think it reminded him of where he spent his youngest years, years that were nothing short of torturous, really, so it was understandable that he didn't want any reminders of them, even if the reminder was something as innocent as rain.

It rained the day we found out he would die sooner than anybody should.

It rained the day his mother sliced his arm open and impaled his hand with a pair of gardening shears.

He didn't like the rain. It was kind of hard to blame him.


still not dead

If you were judging based on the attention I've been paying to my blog these days, I know this is probably shocking.

I have many stories to tell. Some of them are even funny, like the one about my dog, the chipmunk, and the rat terrier. Side-splitting stuff, I promise.

Please bear with me.