You Stupid Cow

The sun has turned to rain, the way it does when the mood needs underscoring. I keep thinking about everything we still had planned—Kung Fu Panda at the cinema, London together, falling asleep drunk on red wine one more time and then one more time after that. Instead I’m sitting here running the song we once listened to all night because neither of us could be bothered to get up and turn it off. Where are you now. Is it okay, wherever you are. Are you laughing or haunting some castle somewhere—you were always a poltergeist, always keeping everyone on their toes, and I miss that more than I can explain. I miss being kept on my toes.

Is there any chance of seeing you again. Sometimes I want to scream at you for leaving first. I screamed, I cried, I accepted it, I threw up—I went through the whole sequence—and the hole you left won’t close by even a fraction. But I know you’re my guardian angel now, wherever you’ve ended up, and that thought still pulls something back up in me. Some small reflex toward hope, toward smiling. You stupid cow. Why did you have to die.