whtnoise

i'm on the first of two lucky cigarettes here, the last (possibly) of 8 or so drinks this evening, jack and coke - two cubes of ice, three parts jack to one part coke, lovely.

there are, far too many sad days for many of us. too many to recall, too many to remember in agony. reading through everyone else's posts, it's hard to find a memory that can compare to most, but we are all wrought with sad days, incomparable to everyone else's, they belong only to ourselves, their meaning is only our own, their memory only as powerful as the moment they lived in, in our minds.

a force of habit, now smoking my second lucky cigarette. every pack i buy, i turn over two smokes, one for myself, one for... something - someone else, who now, is too far away from luck to be considered lucky. nonetheless, i turn her's over, in memory of less-sad days, in hope that luck will once again find me again...

december 24th, 1998.

beyond the sloping hills, filled with eastern evergreens that shadowed my home during this time, was a tipi. tucked behind the wilderness, its' weathered white canvas was streched around bleached lodge-poll pine trunks that reached some twenty feet in the air.

there was a snow-covered path that circled behind the woods of my home, around two or three cords of un-split wood. my father and i, had made purpose of the day to split this wood, to warm our log house by means of the stone fireplace that sat to the left of the living-room.

there was many possible factors that could have contributed to the events following - and such events may pale in comparison to events experienced by fellow posters - but again - to each their own, we share these sad days only to their extremes' with ourselves, and no other among us aside from ourselves can truely understand the pain associated.

our chores completed, wood split, re-located and stacked neatly in a pile just off the porch, i kicked my boots against the stairs leading to the west entrance to my home, loosening their days' accumulation of dirtied snow.

my cold, now gloveless hands gripped the door-knob in anticipation of the warmth that would greet me inside, quite to the contrary, upon opening the door, was my father, lying on the floor.

his legs and feet were contorted in an almost in-human position. right arm clutching his left, eyes bloodshot, forehead folded in an expression unspoken through his unusually discolored lips. "what the fuck's going on here?", i asked, to which he replied, "i pulled something, my arm here, it's all fucked up, jesus-christ, it hurts, just give me a couple minutes, i'll be alright". for some reason, in that moment, i thought nothing of it, "i'm going to go take a shower, you're alright, ya?", "fuck. of course, i'm fine, just give me a minute, i'll be fine, christ, go take a shower.".

i remember the soothing beads of water running down my face, along the contours of my skin. hands propped against the shower wall directly beneath their head, eyes closed - without even a second thought given to the vision provided only minutes prior. like most showers, this one was peaceful, and unlike most, the solice was broken by a frantic voice; "i have to take your dad to the hospital, something's wrong, i'll call..."

my hands' slid down the tile walls of the shower... it felt like hours, in the time it took to turn off the water, jump out of the tub, wrap a towel around myself, and run into the hall outside of the bathroom, the house was suddenly empty, vacant of my family.

i walked out, directly in front of the stairs that led to the front door, and sat down, half-naked on the steps, the rush of thought that followed almost too surreal and disorientating to recognize.

december 25th, 1998.

i asked to be alone, at the hospital, for a moment, with my father. the blanket that covered him reached just past his waste, his gown open just enough to reveal the bandages that covered his ravaged chest.

the strength missing from the hand i now held was disturbing, the eyes i now looked for comfort in were weak and without focus. "i hear the jello here, it's just about as good as you can get.", i pointed to the food tray, swung on its' arm opposite the side of the bed i stood on. he struggled to reply, "it really is crap, the hospital food. you'd think trying to bring a man back from the dead, they'd give you something a little better than this - but jesus christ."

outside the windows' of his room, the snow had begun to fall again, and back home there was a fire waiting to be built, it's flames awaiting the rage of recovery...