We walked out of the bank, into the light and the dryness. It had been a dry, mild winter, and summer stepped right in. Spring simply didn't happen. Warm all the time. This all pointed in a bad direction: fires, low reservoir levels, municipalities instructing their citizens on how to save water. And then the water runs out: rioting in the streets, murder, devastation...
I hope to be gone by then.
All the papers were signed. I was now the Personal Representative. The lawyer and I said our goodbyes. "You are Robert now," he said. I watched him walk through the parking lot. He didn't stop, and I thought, where the hell did he park? I briefly thought about offering him a ride, then walked to the car, got inside, put the keys in, got it started, drove out of the parking lot. At the stop light I noticed how dry my hands were, the hands of an 80 year-old.
There were a lot of lessons over the years, Robert. Most of them intentional, some by accident. In the beginning, because of the wide-eyed awe you inspired in me, they were all-consuming, laying the foundation for my own aesthetic. I went back later and questioned them, realizing a lot of them were truth, and a lot of them had to be taken with a large grain of salt. At any rate, they all made me think, which isn't a bad thing by any stretch. In fact, pretty damn important, I reckon. But, my friend, this one I don't need just now. This is one that could have waited: how to open a probate.
I could have waited another 20 years before figuring the ins and outs of settling an estate. If only
you were here
so I could
tell you
how pissed off
I am
about this
one.
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