off to fairways lined with great cigarettes...

(a thursday dinner out. coming home. playful joking. a red blinking light. a message; anticipated but never wanted.)


over a decade ago i met you.
i remember a dinner at a chinese restaurant with you making what i thought were slightly inappropriate jokes.
but you were my mothers faithful companion and you grew on me. you never played the evil step-father role. you shied away from the father role altogether. instead you were always present but never intimidating. you were hilarious and creative. you built beautiful things and you sold cars. you were wonderful.
i wonder if you knew. i wonder how far before you put down that last pack of cigarettes you knew something was really wrong. did you not go to the doctor on purpose? stage four lung cancer doesn't happen overnight.
when i saw you last, i had a bad feeling. you were in the living room on a hospital bed. you were a shadow of yourself. physically, not spiritually. you spoke of the future, but i couldn't believe you.
you finally got to say piss off to cancer. and i am glad that i got the chance to share time with you.


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