Page 235 of Micah

It was Patrick's dream.

Or at least the version of his dream I helped finance.

Mine?

Mine has always been different.

I picture families around picnic tables.

The smell of smoked barbecue drifting through the air.

Local craft beer on tap.

Kids coloring on paper placemats while their parents finish dinner.

Live acoustic music on Friday nights.

Maybe trivia on Thursdays.

Close at ten.

Home before midnight.

No stumbling drunks.

No two o'clock fights.

No pretending every loud voice doesn't make my heart jump.

A tavern.

Warm.

Friendly.

The kind of place people come to celebrate birthdays instead of drown their sorrows.

The thought settles over me with surprising certainty.

I smile.

Maybe this nightmare isn't the end of something.

Maybe it's the beginning.

I shower, letting the hot water rinse away the last traces of yesterday's fear.

When I finish, I pull on one of Micah's t-shirts over a pair of cutoffs.

His clothes are quickly becoming my favorite thing.

They smell like him.

Clean soap.

Fresh air.

A hint of cedar.