scrapple

I never realized how attached I've gotten to that damn bar. It's as full as it ever was with middle aged ethiopian men all over the courtyard mourning the death of the owner. It makes me wonder if they've reopened, but the sign is still up that they're closed. I'm waiting for the night that the regulars come to pay their respects. I find the owner's son in the parking lot. He looks sadder than anything I'd seen in a long time, and I've been to a lot of funerals lately. I shake his hand and meet his relative.

I don't know where to go from there. I go to my old house where my old friend has moved back in to save it. We have a nice chat, but nobody offers me a beer. And I feel lonely around her friends.

I left the old house a year ago and it's strange to be back inside. I look through mail. I get sick from the mold.

I go to the other bar and some of the regulars are there. I feel lost. I leave to make the grocery store in case it closes at midnight.

My mom comes Friday for a family mission. She and my stepdad will stay over for the first time.

On Thanksgiving, I'll have been a year in the house. I'll remember eating fish and stuffing, breathing dust from sanding the floors, and having bitter fights with my exgirlfriend.