a love letter to my friends (in late spring this year)
you should have been here by now.
for six months i have been staring out this window at the naked trees, watching the snow fall and melt and waiting to share spring with you
i was going to buy $100 worth of asparagus and tomatoes and sweet potatoes and bratwursts and salmon and pineapple. then grill it all in a cloud of smoke shirtless, probably. barefoot, certainly.
the kids were going to run in and out of the house breaking all the rules, most likely "no shoes in the house! don't leave the doors open!" bedtime would certainly go all to hell as the sun stayed with us well into the evening, after all this dark and i wasn't going to care because spring.
you were going to sit on the porch and laugh at toby, laugh at my ridiculous music (wub wub wub) laugh for the sheer joy and relief of green after half a year of winter.
we were going to linger for hours, make a pot of coffee, wash it down with a shot of whiskey, talk shit about god, until we are tired and full and half-buzzy and then grumble as we gather the condiment bottles and scattered empty cans to take inside.
we were going to.
but it's so goddamn green outside my window right now and you should have been here by now and you are not and
i miss you.