All I Can Think of

The boys are in bed early. The man has gone out for the night so I am blissfully alone for what seems like the first time in ages. Music. Writing. It's a beautiful thing.

I closed a particular chapter of crazy in my life. It was hedonistic and amazing, and it made me feel like I was twenty-four which is what I had been craving, but I'm glad it's closed. I've felt more calm than usual lately.

But I'm thinking of the time that somebody said, "I want to go to the woods and build bird houses, but my wife isn't into that." And I said, "You've had fifty-three years to move to the woods. Don't blame your wife; You've only known her for two years." And then, of course, he killed himself.

That was sad. very sad.

Fifty-three. Sometimes that shit happens.

I named my third son's middle name after him.   

And I think it was really the shitty anti-depressants that killed him, but I can't help but think that my rancor over his dream to build bird houses didn't help.

Four years later, I still have the coat with the milk stains on it. The stains from the leaky jug of milk that I bought on the way home from his funeral. Maybe it's time to take that coat to the dry cleaner.

The stains of life get me sometimes. They're the reason that I hate washing my jeans.