"...looking for answers to questions that bothered him so."

I got the call this morning from my sister telling me Michael Green is dead. Michael is, for those of you from the way, way, way back, my ex-boyfriend. My officer and a gentleman. The Jimmy Buffet concert romance turned bourbon street engagement, turned bloody mary morning lover. The calls, the months and months of late night calls and promises. My Ft. Polk fancy. My Boat Drinks glass clinker. The man who, with the help of Maker's Mark, got me back into whiskey. The man whose mom I met out in Pascagoula, Mississippi who liked my sister more than me. The little Irish bar at St Pete's beach in Florida & my New Year's Eve Millenium Kiss. The long distance relationship that was a little bit too long and too far. The man I had to wait to come back from the field before I could call and end it with, before I moved any further with a new romance. In the soon aftermath, I took off to mardi gras and I left the little ring on the intersection of Orleans and Bourbon street, the scene of the crime. Even though we were over and I was with another man, I sobbed the whole night and drank myself stupid the whole weekend in mourning because I loved him and because I knew I could have made it work if I wasn't so young and so worried about the call that would come telling me Michael Green was dead.

There was a bomb. And he was in Afghanistan doing what he loved. The two met up and here I am, drinking a bloody mary at 10am, typing through tears.


"It's time to see the world
It's time to kiss a girl
It's time to cross the wild meridian
Grab your bag and take a chance
Time to learn a Cajun dance
Kid you're gonna see the morning sun
On the Pascagoula run"