People In Hell Want Icewater
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October 20, 2004 - 12:35 a.m.

The Boston Red Sox are providing a strange backdrop to this absurd and unique week. They have continued their improbable run yet again, vacuuming up the last two evenings as I stay up late watching them keep winning.

But that's not what I'm writing about tonight. Tonight, it's about Melody.

I was driving home from watching the Red Sox, and doing the good deed of following a friend home to make sure she got home safe and without undesired police protection (she was not in great shape but got home safely). I had gotten a voicemail from another friend sometime during the evening, and after listening to it, the system rolled over and started playing the saved voicemails.

The first one started off, "hi, it's me."

I lost it. I didn't hear the rest of the message... I had to pull over. I realized I would never again get a message from her that started out like that. That familiar, friendly voice she used to use with me. Knowing I'd know immediately who it was, that shorthand people who care about each other have.

Worse yet, was knowing that that message would eventually age off the system and be gone forever, never to be replaced with a newer one about something else that she thought I'd want to know.

I hurt in ways I forgot I could hurt.

I do miss her.

I even miss the crappy stuff. Because even if it was crappy, it was her, and there is no more "her."

Sometimes when you pull up a plant, you find the root is much deeper than you thought and a lot more soil comes out. It leaves a big hole you cannot immediately fill, and for a long time, you can tell something was there. And sometimes when you take a plant out, you find that nothing else seems to want to root in that same spot.


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