An incomplete longitudinal study of post-adolescent orphan-hood. Year One.

 I called in sick this morning.

Couldn't face another shift of being lied to by amateurs.

Not today anyway.

So I drove a few towns north to put fake flowers on my parents grave.  (Yes, they share one)

And I can't help but think of what a time it's been these last few years, and this last year in particular.

On the one hand, there have been so many times I would have loved to have them to talk to,

to ask for advise or comfort.

But on the other, I'm so glad neither of them lived to see this shit-show of a year.

And now matter how bad 2021 is, at least I have two fewer people to worry about.

And I realized driving north this morning that they spent my entire life preparing me for this world.

For navigating the daily stupidity of a society bent on consuming itself.

For a world without them.

But I got a fair amount done this year.

 
Got their affairs half in order.

Fought and won with lawyers and accountants.

Got engaged.

Got diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.

Quit drinking.

Got diagnosed with absurdly high blood pressure.

Got it under control at least long enough to have the septic molar pulled and a big chunk of the infected bone removed.

Kept regular (more or less) after a half dozen rounds of horse antibiotics.

Survived the Rona, at least so far...

And in spite of being an essential worker in an office that caters to the ever increasing hordes of homeless destitute and newly (or not so newly) disenfranchised wanderers, I have long since stopped counting the empty desks.

And the constant cussing and wailing is, for the most of times anyway, a background hum.

But I still miss them.

 

Gods I'm tired.