When Tim died I inherited his books. I’m a book lover so it make the most sense for me to take them. Last weekend I pulled his Allen Ginsberg book from the shelf to read. A picture fell from the book into my lap. It was a picture of Tim holding AK’s baby. As I gently picked the picture up I was overwhelmed with emotion. I tried to fight the tears, but finally gave up and allowed myself to cry.
Why do my tears always have Tim’s name on them? As I think about it 80% of the tears shed over the past four years have been Tim tears. He’d be so pissed at me for that. I can just hear him lecturing me that crying only dehydrates you. He was such an emotional bad ass. Nothing affected him. Or so we thought, and then he took his own life.
Death is funny. Not funny ha-ha, but peculiar. I’ve cried more over Tim’s death than I have over my own grandmother dying. It was her time; she had lived a full life. Tim hadn’t, but he could have. He just chose not to. Idiot.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Tim the remainder of the weekend. So many Tim stories were running through my mind. I jotted as much down as I could so I’d remember to write about them later. It wasn’t until Monday morning when I noticed the date that I realized why Tim had been so prevalent the last few days. August 11th is Tim’s birthday. After seeing the date I panicked. I couldn’t remember how old he was, and then it hit me: Tim doesn’t get older. Tim is gone. And guess what… it’s really hard to have birthday cake with the dead.
Happy birthday Motherfucker, I miss you.