It's strange; the other morning, I had a dream of John -- it has been some time since I last had one -- where Colleen, he and I were gathered in the living room. He was smiling in that warm way he had. In the dream, I knew he couldn't stay, that we had just a brief visit from him. I was telling John of the second The Gamers movie (I had just watched the movie) and how I wished we could watch it together. He nodded and said that he'd have to check it out. A sudden burst of sadness hit me in the dream and, for some reason, I was crawling away, trying to get out of the living room. But I only made it to the threshold to the foyer before I broke down in sobs. I awoke then, with tears streaming and then sat up in bed. Eventually, I grabbed my phone and checked my emails and was stunned to see a notification that someone had replied to this very thread.
On New Year's Eve, while out, I ordered a Kamikaze. When it arrived, I took a pull from the glass, set it down and considered the golden liquid within. Grief struck as I remembered that when John and I first hung out, he and I went shot for shot with kamikazes (he won, I staggered ouside the bar and sat down on someone's stoop, quite oblivious to where I was). It also reminded me of my final birthday with him, I had drank too many kamikazes and hadn't been that drunk in years (sorry for puking on your rug, John).
Hard to believe that in just under three months it will be two years since John's death. I still clearly hear the fateful, frantic phone call, my mother screaming, I can still see all the vehicles -- especially that slow moving tow truck -- that was in our path as Andrea and I raced to the house -- and even thinking, why are we speeding so fast there, he's already gone --I can, even now, feel the thick cold plastic of the body bag as I patted it to say farewell, still hear the coroner saying, "On three..." as the police and I lifted his body into the back of the coroner's vehicle. I can remember telling his father via the phone that his son had died and his father confused, possibly thinking it was some prank, since it was a Patrick who was calling him on St. Patrick's day.
Thanks to all who keep this thread going. I know it means a lot to my sister. And it certainly speaks volumes of just what kind of man John Finnegan was.