Cheers

The yellow house,
its run down shingles
and sun damaged porch.

That house,
will forever stain my memory.

The way he used to smoke in the house.

Ash from the lit cigarette,
falling to the vinyl table cover.

As a kid I used to place my fingers on the red and white checkered pattern.

I noticed how the length of my finger from the knuckle to its tip fit perfectly in each square.

Swinging in the rickety old wooden porch swing,
I watch the sun go down.

I toast his memory,
with a Brandy Old Fashioned,
sipping ever so slowly.

Wishful thinking,
in a haze of reality.

Cheers old friend.