Eulogy 8

a note on why your name matters

Riding Side Saddle

We were sitting on the bottom of the stairs at the Stick House with big-balled Tully dog close by. You weren’t the man I was dating. Not the moppy haired guy who walked out of the bush across from the deli I worked at and took a full two weeks before he could say more than “hi” to me. He was up top getting high while we chatted about all the things people talk about when they live on opposite sides of the planet and will likely never talk again. Vulnerabilities, dreams, dashed hopes. 

And while I have no idea where you ended up after that meeting, I’ll always appreciate our brief friendship if only because instead of calling me “Jersey” you insisted on calling me Hannah.