FLASHES....

I’m eight years old, Jeff's fourteen. I think he is super cool and think all his friends are cute. I try to hang out with them and follow them around. Sometimes he lets me and sometimes he doesn't. Were in the back room at my grandma’s house. I’m coloring and we are listening to Mother’s Milk by Red Hot Chili Peppers. He’s playing along on his guitar. He stops the tape, rewinds it, and plays a certain part over again. His friends from down the street come over. I start collecting my things assuming that they are going to start teasing me like always and run me off. But, he doesn't he says I don't have to leave. I smile and pick up a crayon and continue coloring. They ignore me and talk about music and whatever else teenage boys talk about. But this time...he lets me stay.

I’m ten years old. I’m standing in the hallway in front of the door to my grandpa’s hospital room with the rest of my family. There are tears streaming down my face. Jeff asks me if I want to go in and see him. I shake my head and he leads me to the side of the bed. I hold my grandpas lifeless hand and cry. My aunt Louise comes in the room. She tells Jeff its okay for him to cry. He breaks down and she holds him. It’s the first and only time I ever see him cry.

He is standing up at the front of the church in a tux looking handsome, maybe a little nervous, but happy. He kisses his bride and we head to the reception. I’m standing in line trying to straighten out the wrinkled dollar bills in my hand. It’s my turn, I pin the money to his suit jacket and we dance. He’s embarrassed, he doesn’t like to dance, I tell him he is doing perfect and he was. We laugh and talk about how weird it is that he is a married man now. Someone lightly taps me on the shoulder. My turn is over.

He’s standing in the hallway waiting for the nurse to come and get him. He pulls a scrub top over his shirt and then begins putting paper booties over his shoes. He is as white as a ghost. The nurse comes and takes him past the double doors leaving us all standing in the hallway whispering and holding our cameras. Several minutes pass until we see him again. When we finally do, he has a tiny bundle in his arms and a smile on his face. We cry and take pictures and decide which of her tiny features she got from her dad. The nurses take her away and we all crowd together behind the glass. Later I watch him wathcing her...I know he is going to be good at this dad thing.

Its New Years Eve 2006 and I drove “home” to hear his band play at Crocket Street to ring in the New Year. The stage is set up outside, across the street from all the bars. My breath comes out as white smoke in front of me. I wonder how he can play with it so cold; my fingers would be killing me. Watching him in his element, doing what he loves to do, it didn’t look like it was bothering him at all. Later, he confesses to me that his fingers did hurt. He is a true rock star.

It’s Christmas time 2008. I’m sitting in his living room reading a rolling stone magazine article on Kings of Leon. He leans over my shoulder and makes a face at their picture. I tell him to shut up that they are hot. He tells me their music was okay when they first came out but that their sound has changed as much as their look. I ask him if he has heard any thing by Muse which is one of my favorite bands. He says that he’s heard them and likes one of their songs but doesn’t remember the name. He picks up Hailey’s toy guitar which has only five strings and plays part of the song almost perfectly. I tell him that it’s called Knights of Cydonia and agree to its awesomeness.

That annoying voice comes over the speaker announcing that visitation time is over. One by one everyone leans over his bed, over all the tubes and IV’s keeping him alive, and kisses him and tells him they will be back tomorrow. It’s my turn. I run my fingers through his hair and hold his limp hand. I lean in close and tell him that I’m headed back to Angelo in the morning to be with his little girl. That I will be back soon, for him to keep fighting and I’ll keep praying. My eyes fill with tears. I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice even. I tell him I love him and hold on to his warm hand for a little longer. Cherishing its warmth, trying to burn that feeling in my memory, to freeze time, because I’m scared that the next time I touch it, his hand will be cold. The next time that I do…it is.