These are not stories.

The calm before the storm. The beards are grown out. The wellies are on. They stroll in in packs, carrying their allotment of cases of beer and cider. It’s the important things. Tents are being pitched all around. The clouds are rolling in but the sun is still out. It will be a rainy weekend but for now all the pale white skin needs sunblock.

Free preseco [sic]. Down the hatch. Should have eaten first. The chaos begins. The black jeans are new. The wellies are new. The tent is new. The sleeping bag is new. All will be well worn with blood, sweat, and tears before I finish blinking, before I catch my first breath.

Tara stood at the side of the stage and smiled. It was all she could [do] to not break down in tears. Dan had been gone for less than a year and the pain was still very raw.

The band paid tribute to her late husband by turning the volume up to eleven. It took three guys to equal the strength of Dan’s one-man guitarwork.

I watch Tara at the side of the stage. I could see her pain, and it brought out my own pain. My eyes watered every time I looked over at her. So I kept looking away. But I kept looking back. Dan was taken away too soon, too young. No young woman should have to deal with such pain.

The crowd raised their cups in honor of their fallen comrade. These were his people. He was a weekend god once a year. This was his church and these were his disciples down on their knees praying. Lord hear our prayer.

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