How it goes.
I will write about the nightbird till I die. That is a promise. And beyond my death I will whistle, hum and, occasionally, sing the songs that she never sang, but only in my heart.
There will be one day. One moment more lonely than I could have never imagined, when I will remember wet sand clinging to my feet, between my toes, under the pale blue glow of the summer’s moon, thousands of days past. My young son running across the beach and into the tiny crashing waves. His small and fat hands digging into the sand. Squirming grunion in his little fists.
Young people will happily chatter on as they walk past me. Their own lives to live. Mine almost over and completely unimportant. And I will hold on and on, despite illness of body or mind. If they should be so lucky, all those young people will shuffle along in my shoes, and all the shoes ever walked in before me.
All that will be left will be what the weather man promises. And when those promises fail, I will be the old fool clutching his umbrella under that laughing, clear blue sky.