Two Years

I haven’t had a glass of red wine barefoot on a patio in two years.

I haven’t talked about Cardinal O’Connor in two years.

Nobody was there to get it when Clyde showed up, but that didn’t stop me from starting to go tell you anyway.

It’s been two years since you died, Miss T., and the world still isn’t quite right. Not without your smarts and your badass attitude and your batshit crazy laugh and your joy in the everyday and your insanely generous spirit. The world is still lopsided without them. It still needs you.

Lots of us do. The Kid needs you, too. Although he acts fine. More than fine. Perfect. You know him.

Can you write a letter to a friend and call that a prayer? I don’t know. It feels sort of sacrilegious… or at least un-religious. Especially those “badass” and “batshit” parts.

But mostly that feels wrong on your behalf because I couldn’t think of a way to work “asshat” in for the trifecta of truly Tracy words.

Maybe it’s not a prayer but at least it’s a “Thinking of You”. Two years is too long, Tracy.