Blood, Sweat, Tears

I couldn't deal with it, right? I started making jokes, playing the big man, playing what I thought was a man at all. She warned me about opening up, but I wanted to open up. I wanted to be that guy, talking about the stuff I never could talk about when he was alive.

And so she started. She told me things. She said she felt him, even before she heard he was gone. He was there, talking, communicating. And she told him, "I'm sorry."

That was it. It wasn't anything more than that, it didn't have to be. "I'm sorry." Was that so hard? Would that have been so hard to say? Is that the most complicated thing in the world? I guess, ha, in a lot of ways, it is.

"He knows you're angry." I asked her to stop. "He knows you're angry."

"Stop!"

Everyone was talking. There was classic rock. Simple chord structures ran in and out of people's ears. An easy thing that they took for granted. So much work, Blood, Sweat, Tears, joy and loss and sorry, and they hardly ever knew it was there,