i thought

I thought it was supposed to get easier as years passed. I thought the bitter sting of longing and loss lost some of its pucker, became more of an acquired taste, somehow got tempered by the sour hanging around. (Did you know that sour balances bitter in your mouth? It does. It still tastes like shit, but somehow sour is easier to swallow without gagging than bitter.) All the various slights, oversights and plain old inconsiderate rudeness that make up holidays around here brought the stinging heat of loss with them. It is easier to imagine him being soothing, sweet and considerate. I know the opposite could be true, but when the chance to live it is erased, we always imagine the best case scenario. I never imagine that he may have ended up being just as much of a pain in the ass, his family just as rude and manipulative. A large part of me resists even writing that sentence. My heart just says, "No."

I could imagine my current life before it came to fruition. Not exactly, but I knew the seed was there. I've always known I am something to keep around, for no reason I can discern. No effort is, or ever has been, made to placate me when, well, any mood other than favorable hits. So, I imagine Patrick would've been different. Patrick would've at least tried. Patrick this, Patrick that. There's probably not a whole lot of Patrick left, but fuck if the bile doesn't rise in my throat, wishing he was whole, and there, being helpful and useful.

I have to find a way to make it stop.