Pouring, roof-pounding rains have had us on floodwatch since yesterday. I came outside during a lucky lull, wearing the matte black coat over loud purple and intense burgundy. Tiny, unmistakable light-green shoots of grass are poking up through the jagged black rocks of the parking lot.
Suddenly missing the Black Rock Desert, I got in the car. Mileage is sucking, and a pang of regret: can’t ask my dad about the mileage, because he’s gone. It may not be anything to worry about – been doing a lot of city driving, and so warming up the car for several minutes before each 2-mile drive – but the point is, I can’t ask him, ever.
The air smells of ocean, like a Nor’easter. A sparrow perched, chirped and cocked its head at me as I was walking into Giddings House.
currently playing: amon tobin – “dream sequence” (bricolage)
I understand how you feel about your dad. Every time I’m lost somewhere in Boston, I wish I could call him for directions. Every time the Red Sox win or lose, I wish I could talk to him about how they’re doing. I’m sad because he can’t watch Firefly, which he would’ve loved – he adored Westerns, and it’s close enough that he would’ve had fun with it. And tomorrow would have been his 61st birthday, and instead of going to his birthday party I’ll be burying my uncle (something I don’t think I’ve talked about in LJ).
Ohh, Nikki. I’m so sorry to hear about your uncle. That… that just sucks.
Yeah, I often think of you and your dad when I think about mine.