For Ryan

Ryan I

I’m heading to your service.
I’m on the orange line
      I’m on the red line
                  I’m online.

Trains didn’t always have wireless access.

I’m gonna pretend you’re on a couch
I’m gonna pretend this trip is to see family
I’m gonna pretend that I’ll be eating tacos
I’m gonna pretend you’re not dead.
I’m gonna play my little game and pretend you’re not dead.

All of these people,
Going to work.
Don’t they know life will never be the same?

The hardest part wasn’t seeing your hands, the rosary beads,
It wasn’t the caked makeup around your features.
Your mustache brushed with a little comb.
It wasn’t that you had your glasses on…. God. I’m so glad you had your glasses. Can you imagine, “His glasses, he can’t see without his glasses!”
It’s that you’re actually dead. That’s the hardest part!!

You’re fucking dead. 

That’s fucking crazy, dude.

Sitting in the parking lot, can in hand, just assuming you’re on your way,
pissing in a bathroom,
caught in a conversation with some
older man 

about the Celtics and hard work. 

It’s stupid that this bit won’t end. 

You got the last laugh. 

Ryan II

Morning jog,
Just last week I threw up here.
Friendly Uber drivers,
My throat is raw
And raspy.
Like when we sang the song at my kitchen table.

The sun baked your casket, when my hand touched it, my ring made a loud sound and it was hot.
Claudia kissed it.
She looked like a mega babe.
You would have loved it. 

The procession was crazy, they shut down the fucking highway!

From your elementary school in Rockland to Ashmont where you last slept on my couch. It was maroon and torn and old and you’ve slept on it before.

Everyone’s telling me the songs they used to request when we were sweaty and on air.

We smoked your last pack of cigarettes. I bought 3 dollar beers for a couple folks at the bar and took my time going outside. Cassie smoked her first cigarette. Dan didn’t.

Tangled headphones and the biggest party you ever had.

Never before have cooler people gathered, bounded by a tight twine of love and appreciation for you. Almost as tight as this fucking headphone wire. Fuck!

Your dad made us laugh, but then he called you a good boy. Fuck!

I never wanted him to stop talking. I wanted to hear everything he said.

I saw your parent’s boat, Ori and I appreciated water. Mike told us about the seal in the Taunton estuary.  

I met your grandmother. 

When they carried your casket inside, TJ had a single tear on his cheek.
There was a compromise on the bag pipes.
And Mike wore his glasses. 

Why does taking a shower feel like accepting you’re gone?
Your death catapulted me back. What does strength have to do with filling the hole that will never be filled? How many buckets of sand do I have to pour in when the gap continues to widen? How many bricks do I lay when the wall will never be finished?

What is the fucking point of strength when I’m making Italian food and you’re still dead.

Ryan III

I went to work for the first time since Cassie called.

Everyone was nice, they feel bad about what happened.

I feel bad about what happened. 

Condolences handed with a touch of the big guy himself, you’d find the humor in it. I keep thinking that you’d find humor in all of this. You’d think it’s fucking hilarious that Ghost of You came on the shuffle as we drove 2mph through the cemetery.

The Celtics are playing at TD Garden. Two quarters and a penny, get your very own Celtics token. Boston’s boys. You may have rooted your limbs in the Apple but you bled Boston. 

God, why did I word it like that?

Vintage Celtics memorabilia,
My old business card on your bureau,
I’m at the bar and I smell of piss and weed and IPA that looks like juice.

You know that smell.

Now, here I am… making a playlist of music that makes me feel you’re in the passenger seat. 

Your Spotify is still alive, like all of your other social accounts.

We’ll never connect on LinkedIn. 

You made playlists for every month, did you know you’d be leaving us this gift? 

God, there’s something so fucked up that your fall 2023 playlist has only three songs on it. There’s something so fucked up about knowing the three songs you were jamming to. There’s something so fucked up that the playlist will be unfinished.

Like when your final Instagram story played it’s course.

Like when the news had nothing to report, refreshing my browser.

Sticking my tongue in the grooves of this plastic cup. Getting every last drop.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be full again.