He was only 34 years old. He got drunk at the bar, got on his Harley, and promptly wrecked it. He went over the handle bars and the back of his head met with the rise of the curb. He was on life support for 3 days before his Mom had to make the most difficult decision of her life.
I was angry. At damn near everyone. The bar and the bartender that served him. The people he was out with that night. The heavens above for taking him so early. But most of all I was angry with Alex. He would have strangled us for doing exactly what he did. Yet he was too prideful to ask for help himself. I was livid at him for putting his mother through so much pain. I was there when they unhooked him from the machines. And when he flat lined, his mother wailed the most horrific sound, I knew a piece of her soul died that day, too.
I was a mess. It didn't seem real for a very long time. I'd been in the middle of a painting of his tattoo when it happened. I didn't pick up a brush for 4 months. His canvas just sat on the easel untouched.
I did eventually come out of the fog. My best friend, also a friend of Alex, gave me a talking to. He said, "Do you think Alex would want to be the reason you stop painting? He'd ask you what your damn problem is, and tell you to finish the fucking painting."
In the last year I've come to terms with this. I accept it as reality now. I'll never see him again. Never hear his laugh. Never wake up to a late night drunk text. It's gotten easier. Not better, but easier to live with. Being angry, being sad... it won't undo what has already been done.
I miss you, but I'm ok now. I know you're watching down on all of us, and waiting patiently with a cherry bomb.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for taking the time to leave your comment here. I feel loved and adored. Sorry about the extra security, but I'm tired of getting emails from Anonymous users posting junk in my comments.