I hate it way more than those posers who only talk about how much they hate it around September 19th. Even now, in Spring, its hook scratches at the base of my brain, sending a halting jolt through my arm as I move to embrace her.
It’s not you, I say to her. It’s not your fault. But I cannot keep the tear from her eye, I cannot make myself an unbroken man. I am haunted, and each breath is shortened by Talk Like a Pirate Day, each step is weighed upon by Talk Like a Pirate Day.
In my dreams, she draws a black shroud over September nineteenth with a felt-tip marker and an understanding smile. Then everything is bright, and she is in Heaven, made whole, and my happiness for her is so filling that I do not see, until the dream ends, that she is alone there. I cannot come with her, I see now, because if Talk Like a Pirate Day dies, I will go with it. It is too much a part of me.
