Part of it feels like Hallelujah, and you’ll think that’s a bad thing but it is not.
Hallelujah … Halle-lujah …
And wouldn’t he laugh to think that a holy song would be sung in his honor. Except, he was not disrespectful, not in that way. Irreverent, yes, but not without manners, not intentionally, never intentionally.
Someone said, “irreverent and a lot of fun,” and someone else said, “He was always there with his quick wit.” Those closest to him said, “loyal.”
Who was he? Who was I to him? We will not know one another again until the next life, but whether he can hear or see or know, I say to him, “Hallelujah … Halle-lu-jah …”
“Baby, I’ve been here before. I’ve seen this room, and I’ve walked this floor, you know, I used to live alone before I knew ya. And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not a victory march … it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.”
A flag on the marble arch.
There are any number of possibilities for #fffff. If you’ve been here, you know: I am bold yet still with a broken Hallelujah.
Amazing and predictable and heart-breaking all at the same time. I’d do it 1,000 times more and I would not want to do it again, ever.
Allan W. Hook, September 3rd. Until tomorrow.