Geowalkabout

He messaged late,

years folded into one line—

I’ll buy you a drink.

And I went,

not knowing what would rise

from the dust of old silence.

We stayed out too long,

laughing like we hadn’t bled,

like grief hadn’t carved

its initials into our ribs.

We wore the night like denim,

soft from memory,

frayed at the edges.

Talk turned to my father—

the shed,

the soldering iron,

his voice steady:

Just burn it off.

A skin tag,

a small rebellion of flesh,

no match for his resolve.

He was my quiet hero,

the kind who trusted

pain to pass

and family to show up.

We spoke of our kids,

the years he missed,

the words I couldn’t find

when I needed them most.

It wasn’t blame,

just truth laid bare

like tools on a workbench.

It felt like trying on old boots—

not lovers,

just old friends

who once knew the shape

of each other’s stride.

And when the night exhaled,

I felt it:

the weight lift.

Not because it disappeared,

but because I stopped

carrying it alone.

Shit happens.

And sometimes,

so does grace.