I’ve breathed in worse than the Day Job bathroom. The germs of 99.9 of people I know. B’s aunt is an exception. Mourning her family’s loss of their beloved Dobby. Sometimes I wish I could stop altogether, but B’s favorite game. Breathe In, B Out
Wednesday, January 19, 2022
Chronicle 202 ~Breathe In, B Out~
Forgive Me Echo,
I AM a Billionaire right now, I always say. Today (Sunday), ahem, when it rains, it pours. My condolences to Carolina’s, Dobby.
I know, I’ve talked about “The Long Walk” before. Not the book so much as the concept. Sorry, Stephen King. Sorry, Aunt Carolina. How about sorry to the veterinarians? B? Should I include you as well, Echo? As I’m sure, I’ve told this story. Hmm. We’ll work up to B III. I don’t know how old I was, but it was on an Emergence Day. In the cartoon Beetlejuice, there’s this character that goes, “What in tarhooties?” Only I said, “What in the Hell?” Next thing I know, I’m being pulled outside, but what was the worst part, Inspector? Breathe in, breathe out, and what? It damn sure ain’t living. I haven’t lived for… since losing Braxton; 353 Days when you see this Inspector Echo.
The death of a child. Honest Echo, I should have died with that Emergence, Inspector. Every day, stepping into school and it’s what I wish. I’m no killer. Somehow inevitable. Only the one I killed was in this house. B III called it his home. I’m worse than my Olds. And forgive my Republican tendencies once again, but going out is like a Death March. You know how I talk about the restrooms at the Day Job and how I can’t breathe in the stench. The whole damn place is like that. I can’t breathe, and then I beg to get out. Then, of course, I whine about being let back in. One of Braxton’s favorite games. The look on his face before the diagnosis.
Breathe in, breathe out. I know B was doing this. Because as I’ve been reading and as the song goes. Listen To Your Heart. Braxton told me, “Daddy, let’s go home.” If anything, I speak fluent Braxton. If I had only listened before, but no. Always breathe in, breathe out. It was my life, put one fucking foot in front of the other for those bastards at the Day Job. We were struggling to breathe but sitting together, laying together. The air up there B? Is it better, not as you need it. I don’t know how I keep doing it. I was a zombie. And no matter the horrors slurred, spitted, are shat I walk, I breathe. I killed Braxton. Breathe In, B Out.
353 Days Without B III
BLM Braxton’s Life Matters,