all the time
The grief comes in waves, in moments when I am not busy and not thinking about anything in particular.
I walk with a rifle and a bottle of wine in the sunny Sunday morning streets of an abandoned city. People go out on Sundays in search of God. But I just want to find pictures of my father. I disturb the dust of airbase hangars. I pause in shafts of light and consider this ever-expanding absence. I grow old and more alone. I drink beer in mold-green shadows of a morning that rises from all the dead we have left below us.
I shield my eyes with a yellowed paperback in the sun rising from cracked tarmac.
I miss so many of you. All the time.