He just was not feeling up to the task
Never, ever
Our mid-twenties son’s wits entirely splintered
Took him on off as far as San Francisco so he could feel that famous Golden Gate breeze wash over his downtrodden face
Remember it oh so very well, the constant beads of sweat which poured from him like a broken tap of sorts
Ought to have seen what was the actual matter far, far earlier
But I believe he knows we were there
Course, he’d to head back home soon as we made it to Napa Valley – fine dessert wine and Tiramisu; right place, right time only minus our Brian
Both before and after
Not to mention no injection whatsoever on his part of a rose-tinted effect
Something he now accepts to be an utter necessity
Retrospect perfected
Had to step on back and try to respect his never-ending struggle, however little we could see it, so much as even begin to goddamn understand it
Talk about his wits… How’s about ours!?
Okay in hindsight, disastrous by north Californian moonlight way back when
We watched him cry over a carefree bottle of dry white, his brother a constant, forever-in-tow
Just tell me this though, Shane… When will it ever even so much as begin to start to stop!?”
“Fucked if I know, bro… .”

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