I stopped.

The reason was four boxes of unlaid tile.

This was supposed to be the project that Patrick and I worked on, actually Patrick working on and me watching, buying and making food as we cut up and told stories of poker games, bluffs and bad beats.

But the tile just sat there.

Pat is gone and lately I’ve been thinking about him. Eight people including four job shadows, two fellow employees and two visitors all look at the stern look from my brother across the room in my bookshelf at the office and ask who he is.

He was strength for he knew no pain.

He was rich, though he had no money.

He was famous, though he had no fame.

He was smart, though no college degree.

He was my brother and I miss him.

Later today, I’ll start cleaning the garage and dusting and organizing like I do when there is something on my mind. Work has been challenging lately and though I could bring up all the problems, it’s better that I don’t. Sometimes I have to be like his picture…

carrying the pain and struggle inside of him.

Though it’s not May 5th I miss him. I can remember where I was when he passed and where I was when I last saw him.

He signed my ceiling tile at the office.

“Why do you sign your ceiling tiles Sean?”

“Well, everytime we have a great ratings book, we leave those numbers on the ceiling as if to say,’reach up and work to get em again’. Also it’s a graveyard of mostly former employees. I like remembering my friends who have moved on.”

“Well I’m signing your ceiling and fuck you if you don’t like it.”

He signed it ‘You Bro Patman’.

He was a super hero to his wife, and to our family.

We miss him.

Love ya Patman.

Your hurting big bro.