My Cigarettes and This Old Dirt Road...

Last night I was so tempted to buy a pack of cigarettes and drive out to the boondocks with The Wreckers blaring like I used to when I was... Well, when I used to get worked up.

When he used to come around.
When he used to treat me like I didn't matter.
When he used to scream and cry and fuss until I hurt inside and just wanted to drive until I could feel again.

The Boy and I got in an argument. No, that's not really true.

I got in an argument with The Boy.

Because he isn't perfect. And I forgot for one minute that I have no right to expect perfection.

I got home from a long weekend of crying. Aunt Maryann's memorial was this weekend and it was difficult to say the least. How do you say goodbye to someone so amazing? So perfect? So a part of you and what you are?

I remembered something about her that made me cry hot wet tears that were heavier than I expected. When he was here and a part of this whole thing, He actually accused me of being a witch. And my mother. And my Aunt Maryanne. His words? "What is she, 412 years old?"

I wish she would have lived that long. But no. She was just a woman. A tiny frail woman with a big heart and a great rhythm who could out-tap Fred Astaire with a smile as big as the sea. Just a woman who clung to Christ when everyone blamed her for everything. When everyone left her. When there was no other choice.

Any how, The Boy.

The point is, he isn't perfect. He didn't show up when I needed him, he didn't hold me like I wanted, He didn't ask me about here or how fantastic she was or how I got a picture from her bedside that I painted for her that she must have seen everyday she woke up, and what do I deserve to be so honored? He just didn't know.

And secretly, I hated him for that.

But I hate the sun for shining when there is no one important enough to shine for. And I hate the rain for raining when the world is already dark enough without her. And I hate just everything for moving on so smoothly when that is that last time for a very long time that she will ever impact change.

I just hate it.

But I also forgot that The Boy is not so tragic. And that he does try. And that he loves me, even in my moods.

Oh Boy, I am sorry I am so complex.

Don't you know I don't mean to be?