Posts tagged and i cried and my tears were also blood.
I am the mother of the most tender-hearted, high-spirited, beautiful little girl who is the spitting image of her father. All that I can cling to is his presence inside her that reveals itself every day. His family and I watch Matilda as she whispers to trees, hugs animals, and takes steps two at a time, and we know that he is with us still.
- Michelle Williams
For some reason whenever I see this shot, I always think of a post-Harvey’s-death world where Mike still works at PH and eventually, after years and years of work, gets Harvey’s office; and one night after a very difficult win on a case, Mike is just sitting in his/Harvey’s office, drinking scotch and staring down at the city below, feeling nostalgic with the alcohol and with the weight of the case lifted from his shoulders; he’s thinking of Harvey and even has one of Harvey’s records playing on the record player from the corner, a low and crooning jazz album. But as Mike gets closer and closer to the window he sees something in the glass — something that’s not his own reflection — and Mike is too logical of a person to believe his own eyes, but no, it’s definitely there, it’s definitely happening: Harvey’s staring back at him from the glass. Harvey looks a little pleased and a little amused, but there’s sadness in his eyes too as he looks around at the office, where nothing has changed since he passed so many years ago. ‘Mike,’ Harvey says — and Mike can’t hear his voice out loud but he still hears it in his head, still knows exactly what Harvey’s saying — ‘Still with the skinny ties?’ And Mike laughs, nodding, tears welling in his eyes. ‘Yeah, Harvey,’ he says when he can manage it, and tries to say more but his throat is tightening because Harvey is grinning at him now in approval, almost proudly, and reaching out a hand for him, fingers extended toward Mike. And Mike — part of him knows it’s crazy, but there’s a part that’s just wishing, hoping, yearning — reaches out a hand, too. But just as his fingers near the window, he hears someone say his name from the doorway, and Mike jerks his hand back, his head turning toward the voice. It’s Donna. ‘Need anything else before I go?’ she asks. He shakes his head too quickly. ‘Are you okay?’ she wonders, and he laughs and rubs his eyes. ‘Yeah, Donna, I’m just… thinking.’ She nods, and stands in the doorway for moment more. ‘I miss him, too,’ she tells him softly, and then smiles at the surprise in Mike’s face. Of course Donna knew; she always knows. When she leaves, Mike stares after her for a long minute before he turns back toward the window, already knowing that Harvey is gone. All there is beyond the glass is the city, still and quiet. Clenching his fist at his side, Mike sighs — and then his eyes catch on a smudge on the window. He reaches out his hand to wipe it off but the marks are on the other side of the glass, strangely enough. Mike leans forward, looking more closely at them— and Mike’s heart stops, because the smudges on the window are fingerprints. They’re Harvey’s fingerprints. Mike feels like laughing and crying all at once. And so he stands there until the jazz record stops playing, looking down at the city, hoping that if he stays there long enough, perfectly still, maybe, just maybe, Harvey will come back again.
Why would you even post that?