Tonight I danced with my girls. We swung and swirled to all kinds of old rockabilly songs until we were dizzy. Maybe that was the whiskey daisies that I drank. Now I am pretending not to hear the two older girls fighting downstairs or the two younger girls squabbling upstairs, or the kitty yowling in the bathroom next to my room. I am in my bed. In my space, that now only smells a little like cat poop, and I am hoping that is my imagination since my sinuses are still packed and I can't smell anyway.

We danced to sweet home alabama. That was Leeroy's song. It's like he's dead now, in my head, and in my heart, and while it's not real because his face and his voice is so fresh, it's that much more in my face. That he is, but he is never coming back. That he will continue to exist as a beautiful memory for all of us, but he may never again be a presence in our lives. That is more than I can swallow without the tears overcoming me.