I wonder what’s under the water at night. As if it’s somehow different than during the day. Much like how people change after they close the door for the last time, switching into their different selves.
I was sitting at the bar. Directly to my left was a door leading to the deck. The wind was picking up. John was rambling on with a friend. I saw the clouds and thought of my father. I walked outside and took this photo. I liked the wind and the darkening clouds. These clouds were exactly overhead. I wondered if there was a piece of my father in them. His celebration of life is this coming Saturday. I don’t want to go. I will go. But I don’t want to. I’m struggling with the guilt of not wanting to go. Just like I’m struggling with the guilt of telling my father he wasn’t there for me when I needed him most. I guess that’s how it goes. And maybe that’s why I stood outside alone. I wanted to show someone the photo of the clouds when I walked back in. What’s the point though. The clouds meant more to me than them. They always will.
They said it was going to be grey. They said to wear a coat in the morning. I thought of my coat after not wearing it. A bit like I thought about how my feet moved forward on the concrete. Sometimes a foot would move just over an old piece of something, like gum, and then the other foot would fix the system by stepping on the next one. Of course this would be done in reverse to correct it all. A boy on a bike rode passed me. He didn’t look at me. I tried; maybe it was me. I quickened my step and stopped looking at how my feet made progress on cement, instead I found levity in the bridge ahead. Underneath was a smooth rolling river. If I closed my eyes and listened well enough I could hear the smallest of gurgling. It was nice to hear.