Your son asked me to say a few words about you this Saturday. I told him if I can put my shyness in a pocket I would love to. But, who am I kidding? I wouldn’t love to and you know it. Damn you for putting me in this predicament. If I don’t say some nice, maybe funny, things about you I’m going to seem like I don’t care about you or don’t know you enough. You know I hate this kind of thing. You’re probably somewhere laughing at me because yet again, you’ve pulled me out of my comfort zone.
You’ve really inconvenienced me with this dying shit. We started this club, you and I. We were supposed to stick it out at WNQR together. Do you know I have graduation the very next day? Who is going to fix my hood? I don’t have to tell you how far away you are from where I need to be the next day. And what about my training for the 60 mile breast cancer walk? This is my last weekend to train and because of you I’ll be stuck in a car for eight hours of prime walking hours.
I think this is what they call the angry stage of grief. In reality I’m still in the shock and disbelief stage. It all happened so fast. You wouldn’t let me say goodbye so you denied me the reality of how quickly the disease sucked the life out of you. I had a few things I needed to say.
I miss you. I want to meet you at the club hideout and tell you about this guy who has broken my heart. I could tell you about this man who wouldn’t let me see him at the end. What an asshole, you would say. Do you want me to beat him up for you? You would ask. Where does he live? I’ll go kick his ass. You would exclaim as you take another bite of club sandwich and stir your too-hot clam chowder.
Maybe I’ll go to the hideout and order a grilled cheese with fries. No bacon. Maybe I’ll order something bone-in and crack a smile as I remember all the newspaper clippings, crazy cards, long letters and completely unreasonable job postings you sent my way. You just wouldn’t take no for an answer. And when the waitress asks me where is my friend I’ll tell her I’m now a club of one.