whirlpooled topics unbackspaced. streams of consciousness. blurts. scribbled notes. outlined ideas. velocity waves. snatches from icloud. because self-editing is a writer’s cowardly way of preventing a reader from fucking the writer's confidence. dates don't matter. memories and moments aren't chronologically marked on the soul.


So. My memorial Mass on Saturday. On the altar: lit votive candles with printed names of the deceased from the parish. During Mass each of the names were read aloud and a bell rang.  Roland “Mac” Trost was the last name read. I’m 59 years old. I know how to control myself. I stoically sat in the pew and silently wept. 

I sat alone. Carol stayed home with our Mother. I felt brokenhearted. I felt alone. No hand to hold. No voiced prayer in unison.

At the conclusion of Mass, we were told to take our loved one’s candle home. 

Sunday I received a text from my friend. Could he stop by? He was singing at a memorial Mass at another parish. He’d stop by after Mass. Steve walked in my front door and in his hand: a votive candle from the Mass he attended. “I wrote Mac’s name in the book of remembrance.”

You see? I’m a fool. Alone? I felt alone. Ass.

I’m never alone. The synchronicity of Divinity. Do you see why I love God? Do you see why I love my friend?

Fuck a bar. Kneel beside your friend in a church. That’s my life.

And honestly. I don’t give a squat who believes or who embraces disbelief. We all address our own post cards. I’m just sharing my immortal soul.

You knew me when you joined the team. I haven’t changed the game. I’m just showing you my shoulder pads, knee pads, and jockstrap.