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Description
I love the smell of the wet grass, and at this time of year, it mixes with fallen, rotting leaves. There's a hint of burning wood on the air, and it stings my nostrils. Somewhere, someone has a fire going. When it rains, it makes me think that, maybe, the world is healing.

Seattleites know better, though. After years in the Puget Sound area, we'd figure that someone would know how to drive in wet weather, that maybe we'd drive better with rain than we would in sunlight. No one ever drives well in the rain, and even worse when they're drunk. And when it rains, and when people are drunk, people get hurt. Sometimes they die.

I don't count myself as particularly sentimental, nor am I under any illusion that Bawny McQustin was the truest friend I've ever had, nor that I was extravagantly close to her. But the truth is, she was one of "us," the smaller group of a still-small group known as FWPA Kids. She was always welcome, always wanted, always fun.

I last spoke with Bawny six months ago, and we both thought that, y'know, maybe that group of us from L'Academie should do something 'round Christmas time. Not only has that little idea of necessity been chucked out, but it's strange to think that we can't even "reschedule."

The world may be healing when it rains, but it's only because there are wounds to be healed. Maybe what we believed as kids is more true than we think; maybe God really is crying for the small but brilliant lights in the world, the chance to shine never fully realized.

Therefore, to Skipbawnia, the only girl for whom I've ever had a petname, Bawny McQuistin: rest in peace.

Description
I love the smell of the wet grass, and at this time of year, it mixes with fallen, rotting leaves. There's a hint of burning wood on the air, and it stings my nostrils. Somewhere, someone has a fire going. When it rains, it makes me think that, maybe, the world is healing.

Seattleites know better, though. After years in the Puget Sound area, we'd figure that someone would know how to drive in wet weather, that maybe we'd drive better with rain than we would in sunlight. No one ever drives well in the rain, and even worse when they're drunk. And when it rains, and when people are drunk, people get hurt. Sometimes they die.

I don't count myself as particularly sentimental, nor am I under any illusion that Bawny McQustin was the truest friend I've ever had, nor that I was extravagantly close to her. But the truth is, she was one of "us," the smaller group of a still-small group known as FWPA Kids. She was always welcome, always wanted, always fun.

I last spoke with Bawny six months ago, and we both thought that, y'know, maybe that group of us from L'Academie should do something 'round Christmas time. Not only has that little idea of necessity been chucked out, but it's strange to think that we can't even "reschedule."

The world may be healing when it rains, but it's only because there are wounds to be healed. Maybe what we believed as kids is more true than we think; maybe God really is crying for the small but brilliant lights in the world, the chance to shine never fully realized.

Therefore, to Skipbawnia, the only girl for whom I've ever had a petname, Bawny McQuistin: rest in peace.