I've got my old world in my hands

I sometimes wonder how I got here. It's like the Talking Heads are playing the soundtrack of my life. I can see David Byrne floating above me, singing "And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?" I told L that the other day in the car. I said that sometimes it seems as if my life is like a dream. I said this as I passed by a place on our ride to my parent's house, where a house used to stand. Now there is nothing. Just like that a house was torn down.

My thoughts of Tim don't come frequently anymore. I watched Bridge to Terabithia with L last week and we talked about it afterwards. We talked mostly of the regret Jesse felt when he didn't ask his friend to the museum. I warned L when he popped the DVD into the player that it was a sad one, and it didn't disappoint. I felt myself freely crying, as if my ability to empathize was somehow heightened. The next day, as I drove to work I also began to cry. My missing him is complicated.

This is one of my favorite pictures of him. It's a passport photo, taken at an Underground station after work one day. He often had his mouth open in pictures, but in this one he also looks like he is looking through the lens to some other place. He looks pure, almost like a lost child, even though he filled the photo booth like a giant. That's my old world.