Realities are not my friends.

I pull my pick-up into the driveway after work. I see Richard’s car setting in the drive. “Good, he’s home.”

Yes, even after it has all sunk in and tears are streaming down my face, there still is a part of me that wants to run into the house, because he really might be home. And there is the side that wants to curl into a fetal ball and spend the rest of my life in the driver’s seat of a 2002 GMC pick-up.

I glance into the living room and see Richard sitting in his chair, by the glow of the TV.

No, the TV isn’t on. And yes, Richard’s chair is empty. But for a second, a brief nanosecond he was here. He was home. Reality can’t steal that from me. And I still check back every few minutes. Just in case.

I call him from my cell. He answers. He says the same thing every time, but he answers. He’s home.

I remember reading an article about people who call their late “whatever” just to listen to their voice. I thought it was perverted and well, odd. Then damn it, call me queer

I picked up my copies of Richard’s death certificates today. Now there is reality fucking with my fantasies. Big time.

Maybe if I just refuse to ever look at them.

Yeah, that might do the trick.