1:00 a.m. The latest I've been up in a really long time. Nothing makes me feel the years piling on more than drinking a cup of coffee at 4:00 in the afternoon and it keeping me up nine hours later.
Or maybe it's the weight of things that keeps me stuck in yesterday when I should be in that middle place.
The other day, during a normal happy hour moment, Potter says something to the effect of "I know it's been a long time since I've done happy hour-- but this is REALLY good." He was looking at his beer, but I can't help but thinking it was more than a brewed liquid that merited such a pleasant comment.
As I do every couple of months, I spent a couple of hours tonight after coming home from work perusing some of the old email exchanges I saved between Kyle and me. There's some very special things in there. Some deep theological conversations, a little playful "love you man" comments and some well placed genuine heart-felt "I love you's." Even a couple of arguments laced our interactions. But the things that are the most meaningful, the ones that make me shiver with the grief at what I lost, are the more common exchanges. The one's that went unnoticed. The "hey, I had a great time yesterday." The "what's up?" The fleeting comments.
It doesn't matter how much you hear the words "cherish every moment you have with your friends" phrase, it still remains nothing more than a Lifetime Movie trailer or a Hallmark card phrase until you actually lose someone. Yet when it happens, and this is one of the unwanted gifts we receive with grief, it's hard to look back on several weeks of "just normal moments" with those close to you without feeling a little bit guilty for not recognizing how holy they were while you were in them.
I'm trying my best.