God and August nights

On a night in August, many years ago, I stood on the third floor of a retreat house on a hill in Angono. I had fallen in love. I looked down on the lights of the town, and I said a prayer, over and over, over a glass or two or three of scotch. Let me have this woman, and I will be happy. That prayer in the night, said to a god I know now does not exist, were "answered," if you believe in god. August was happy then.

One night in August, I watched a woman sleep. I had fallen in love. I clung to her voice, to her eyes, to her lips, her voice. "Let's be friends forever," she said. I see her face, her eyes, those lips, even now. One afternoon I looked into her eyes. One night I watched her doodle hearts on a pad. I wished to never go away. I walked away.

One night in August my baby died. I didn't know it then, but I cried. Something told me, somehow I knew. My baby is dying. The next morning I got the news: Garpy was dead.

One night in August told me "God" was good. All other August nights tell me "God" does not and simply cannot exist.

Garpy, December 29, 1982-August 10, 1991: Lovingly remembered on the anniversary of his death

My dearest Garpy

You are missed and remembered always.
You are loved now as you were loved then.

My dearest Garpy.

Getting harder, not easier

The days are getting harder, not easier.
Whoever said time heals didn't know squat.
It just gets harder, and the pain keeps coming back.
I am dead, yet I am not.
I want to drown in oblivion.
Oblivion, oblivion.
I am a prisoner to my cowardice.
I want to sleep and never wake.
At times I feel I'm coming to a point where I just won't care anymore.
It just hurts too much.
I wait.

Me, 1962-2012

May it be so, may it be so.
May it mercifully be so.

Missing you always

It always hits you. Again and again it hits you, the sense of loss.

You do things--wake up, fix the trash, come home--and remember how it used to be when she was there, your baby, your baby.

How terribly empty life has been since she died, how terribly ugly it has been.

Every day is a reminder of what you've lost and what will never be again.

The desolation is immense, seemingly endless.

There is no mercy in surviving.