the third of august
August 3 marks seven years since my father died—on the same day that Gracie, our little goofy Schnauzer, died as well.
the third of august
the thing I never really liked about august is the way the heat and humidity ride under my skin making it all but impossible to be comfortable I can move from sweaty to surly because there is no relief
grief is an endless august in the weather of the heart an agitating absence a hot breath of a breeze that sends sadness seeping out of every pore even the soft sun of the morning is ready to burn
it has been seven augusts since you died early that morning and I sat in the parking lot of the nursing home in Waco my sweat as heavy as my tears feeling like a fatherless child a long long way from my home
one might think I would be used to august by now but I am not acceptance is not an arrival I keep living through augusts with you still under my skin I will carry your name and your memory yet another summer
Peace, Milton
