I shouldn’t be writing this at work in case I get all teary and unprofessional, but I’m in a drained state of mind that allows my emotions to surface. So at least over-tiredness is productive in one sense.
I miss arguing with you, trying to learn stuff by watching you, wondering why one wine tastes better than another, having a slab of butter melting in a burger you barbecued, your stubbornness, the worried brow, the bloody-mindedness, the golf swing, the purple saloon, getting greasy hands under the ol’ hillman, irish folk music.
I see you in my children, my brothers and my life.
I miss the single-minded determination that kept us together.
Mostly I wonder if you’d be proud of me
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