I go outside to smoke a cigarette. The April-to-September heat wave is finally over and the wind is whipping through the trees, cold and brisk, punctuating the gray skies with the promise of what is to come. I cheat, bending my head against the wind, cupping my hands round the lighter. And I think of you.

You come drifting down out of nowhere, a ghostly presence in the recesses of my mind. Damn. Why now? Why at this moment? I was perfectly happy. I enjoy living by myself, just me and the pussycat and the critters of the forest. It's nice to come home to a warm purr and an ear rub, pop the top on a can of Coca-Cola, shuck off the shoes and drink in the silence.

I didn't have to wait for you to come home last night. My eyes don't fly open at 0200 any more. Folks say that midnight is the witching hour, but that's just not true. It's 0200, when the bars close and the drunks stagger out to their cars and the waitresses all need a ride home. That's when the witching hour really begins. Nowadays I sleep right through it. It only took me six years to be able to say that.

I don't have to listen to you whine any more about how you need new cymbals, or drumsticks, or a new amp for the electric bass you never take out of the case. I don't have to wonder why, if you really need and want all those things, you don't take a paying job like the rest of us poor slobs. It's not like those two nights a week that you work in the beer joints will interfere with a real job or anything. And Corporate America doesn't charge you full price for your liquor, 'cause they don't serve it on the job.

My living room is no longer filled with the hard, black cases that define your life; hard, black cases to protect precious musical instruments, as you protected yourself from me. I don't trip over the Martin as I enter the door, don't stub my toe on the high-hat; no one throws anything against the wall. It's rare when something gets broken. I guess the last time anything got broken was the day I hauled all that shit of yours out to the dumpster. If you don't count the day you broke my heart.

Every day it's good to be alive; good to bring a little joy to others; good to fill up the candy jar and keep the change pile replenished and be as helpful as I can to the people I serve. Hard work fills my days and peace fills my nights. The pussycat is a bonnie companion who requires very little from me. As long as the food bowl is full and her crystal goblet contains fresh spring water and she can demand egress or ingress as she wishes, she's happy. The birds and the raccoons and the possums don't bitch about the kind of scraps I throw out the back door. Even the rabbit is content with his fare. They're happy. I'm happy. Everybody's happy.

But then I go outside to smoke a cigarette, the chill in the air reminding me of nights I waited, nights I hoped the dream was real, nights I thought would never end. And I think of you.