. . . The Love You Make . . .

I almost want to see him on and ask him why he continued with that ultimatum when he knew about Rusty. I mean, Mike’s right. You don’t add to a person’s grief like that. You just don’t. I mean, Ryan’s house fire happened just after our argument over something from awhile ago, and you know what? I just instictively put that aside, and tried to comfort him about losing just about everything that was in his house, including his poor dog. It died from smoke inhilation. Poor doggie . . .

Poor Rusty . . . I don’t want to lose a cat. I haven’t lost an animal since Peti, my sophomore year. Huh. My first instinct then was to talk to Jason about it. Same as now. I want to talk to him about Rusty. I want to go up there, I want to see him, I want to be hugged by him, just one last time. Even if it is the last time, just once more . . .

What am I gonna do tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the next time I hear that Canon piece that they play on the radio? Or Feliz Navidad? Or Jingle Bell Rock? Or The Gift? Or Grown Up Christmas List? Or Where Are You, Christmas? Who will I debate with over single word things, like whether it’s” Hark! How the bells . . .” or “Hark! Hear the bells . . .” in Carol of the Bells? Who’ll play me music like SP –whatever– 17? Who will I show Young Boy to on guitar? Who’ll tease me about my height and then make such a funny/”don’t-kill-me-for-saying-this” comment as “Oh, come on. You know we always tease one another about the other’s . . .” darts eyes back and forth, “. . . shortcomings . . .” Who will come up with either the bumbling idiot or super genius comments? Who will I make stories about Captain Obvious and Blatant Boy with?

He said he’d always be there . . .