12-06-04 - 8:48 p.m.
sometimes somebody will come through my register to buy the exact same shoes jimmy used to wear and my throat constricts and my eyes fill and i fumble around with change and forget to say thank you. since the baby arrived, i have this overwhelming desire to talk to him, tell him about patti and the horse and the snow and how great life is, 8 hours and a state away. about how he has become the standard by which i measure all other men. sometimes in the middle of the night i'll call his cellphone, knowing it's off, just hoping he'll see my missed call in the morning and think of me. i'd like to hear his voice; he's 73, you know, and a pulse check wouldn't hurt.