I am sitting at home with a wee bit of scotch in my glass and pork chops in front of me. Even though I’m drinking Glenfiddich instead of Jameson’s, Patrick would appreciate my beverage choice and the fact that I cooked a meal for myself for a change.
Before my first sip I raised my glass to Patrick’s memory, just as I often do at night, standing alone in the kitchen while the overhead light feebly passes through the window to hint of big trees in my dim view.
My mind turned to my old friend and roommate Gary Harkins. Gary is the one who introduced me to Glenfiddich almost 40 years ago, back when my cousin Raymond died. I tried to locate Gary a couple or three years ago while driving cross-country, but his email address and phone numbers no longer worked, nor could I remember his precise address in Payson though I had visited twice before.
I’m not sure why I’m sharing all this.
Perhaps it is just another reminder to myself that Patrick is never far from my mind.
As we continue to lose our friends and family, lose those hearty souls now crumbling in the dust and ashes of our mortality, we remain cognizant of the many joys they shared with us. We further strive to diminish the negatives we experienced in favor of the positive and profound.
Our families continue to shrink and grow (Max and Leigh, I’m including you in that list), so we must welcome those things and events we appreciate while declaring bold farewells to those things, people, and experiences that have been harmful, hurtful, and false.
So…. As I complete this entry, narrated between thin bites of meat and ruffled chips, I raise my glass again to Patrick and to his fascinating history and imperfections.
I’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.