two years ago, that I saw Jesse alive and conscious. I was coming down with a cold, and he already had some kind of stomach infection, so I had to leave him at the hospital for the weekend. He really didn't want me there when I was sick; and we'd gotten him his own private room at last. He seemed happy about that. Friends were coming, he would see his high school buddy Alex on Monday. I talked to him on the phone a few times over the weekend, and he kept telling me not to worry. To call the school so he could take his classes from the hospital. Then came Monday morning, the phone call from the nurse, telling me to get there immediately. I can still feel the tone of her voice, the shifting emotions as she realized I didn't know what she meant. As she realized she had to tell me somehow, that it wasn't just some passing event. This was it. He would never see me again, or speak to me or any of us. These memories are still rough to the touch, and I know one day my fingers will slip over them like glass beads on a string, worn smooth by the telling of these prayers to the unforgotten.
I'm glad it was a crappy day out. I'm glad my boots filled with slushy water and my pants were soaked when I got to work. I'm glad it's going to stay like this, get worse, be colder, and dark soon. This is how the weather should be today.