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That Sound That Keeps Me Going

Almost a week since I've been back home. What a difference. Mornings filled with sausage and eggs, chats about current events over hot coffee and tea, with days of Olympics, Internet silliness and cloudy scenes from windows. Breakfast simply a precursor to a tasty lunch, leading into an afternoon nap, all really only a lead up to the clinking of glasses, sips if pinot noir or cabaret, accompanied by a grand meal.  Thoughtful conversation about things, real things! Not about temperatures or snow accumulations. Not about traffic or the ho hums of daily life. That clinking of glasses is what I miss.

Quiet, alone, I lay. The screen flickers as I slice my breakfast at night. The entire week, not even motivated to eat. Reckless spending on beer and whiskey, vodka and coffee. I've become on of them. Complaining about coffee, the cold and (lack of) work, while atrocities surround us. I read one post. About a long ago brother, hampered by demons he couldn't control. A life ended well before it's due date. A young boy I grew up with, almost a brother in the time spent. I cry. I barely remember his face. His older brother, one of the best friends I've had. The slow drip from the ceiling, unnerving me and my simple, but chaotic existence. My uncontrollable debt and lack of means bearing down on me. I think of John and the choice he made and it saddens me. If he had only been able to remember that sound.

The clinking of glasses.

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