pour one out for our ghosts

There's gonna come a day when you'll feel better
You'll rise up free and easy on that day

The walk to the house at the end of the road is as familiar to you as breathing, yet there's something rather butterfly-inducing about doing it hand in hand with someone you like. Or maybe that's just the day-old whiskey talking. Yeah, let's say it's that.

You reach the house and ascend the steps. "I've been a helluva lot drunker'n that." For those first months after Ray died - hell, first next year or more - you spent more time at the bottom of a bottle than anywhere else. These days you're generally a high-functioning alcoholic; hangovers are a young man's game. Letting go of her hand a moment, you reach out for the door knob-

-and then abruptly remember that Sam might be there, and that you had a very awkward conversation with him, and that as much as you aren't insanely hungover, you also aren't prepared to deal with that.

So you hesitate, slowly pushing open the door and peering in almost furtively. "Red?" you call out, voice hoarse, popping your head around. "Ya here? Or... or up?" Pausing long enough to verify that there isn't going to be an answer, you let a sigh of relief slip from you before fully opening up the door. "Well, here it is. Home sweet home."

And float from branch to branch, lighter than the air
Just when that day is coming, who can say?

zephyr