This week I lost and found you're knife. I didn't find it, that was Jake. Redneck, asshole Jake found your knife after I lost it spotlighting. I thought that we were going hunting, good old-fashioned stalk game and take it down with pride. That's not what happened.
I miss you like crazy. The sound of your voice is a memory at best, and it is your voice I miss more than almost anything else. More than your voice, the smell of sweat and wool and dirt and Dr Bronners soap that mixed into my nose and familiar as my skin when you held me. If we could talk again, I would tell you how you taught me to be honest and have faith in an unknowable, unbelievable god.
The knife is sharp. I will use it with honor. I search for you in the shadow bright nights of my soul.
4 comments:
Surely a perfect piece of writing! We've book marked it and sent it out to all of my friends since I know they'll be intrigued, thank you very much!
I removed a piece of my left thumb with my teeth this afternoon. The strip of skin from when my hand slipped as I was carving a pumpkin. My father and I never carved pumpkins, per se, but we did bake pies.
I always like to have a read about such things, my blog is related if you want to have a look round it please feel free. I have added yours to my bookmarks.
Dear Anonymous
I am always happy to have a look around especially if it involves butterflies and redvines.
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