Memories

A steady rain greets the dawn, moist humus scent wafts through my open windows. Morning has long been my favorite time of day. The steady invasion of light in valleys and alleys with creatures stirring, birds calling tell me it’s time to say good morning to God and my honey. When I grind the beans for my coffee, I say, ‘Hey, Darlene, good morning.”

Darla, the puppy I found in a bucket on the side of the road last week has doubled in size as of this morning, bounces at the side of my bed with a tail wagging incredibly fast. What a happy puppy she is, unless she’s not getting her way. That’s an issue I’ll have to address later.

Everything for me lately is later. It’s making me feel like a bad person, but I know I’m not. Kirt’s death mortally wounded my zest for life. The sun shines under the clouds, while water droplets hang in the air. A banana tree’s leaves look like they've just had a good scrubbing. God, you do good work, good morning.

The view from Sato Hill is peaceful, yet ominous clouds and sun, kind of like my life, the sun is trying to shine through. This puppy I didn't want brings me laughter, jumping and running, wanting attention. Smoki, the cat shows her the right way to seek attention. He carefully steps past the hounds on my bed to stand on my laptop, purring. This is how you get attention; he looks down at Darla wagging her tail. She bounds down the hall in search of some kibble wondering; who does that cat think he is.

Gradually the sun shines through, the rain is gone. The Saturday before Christmas I have an errand to do for a friend and then I need to go to the shopping center to pay a bill. Crap, it’s Claro, the bill isn't due until after Christmas, but I have no service. Don’t let me get started on big corporations’ behavior. I’d better get moving.

A dog barking in the distance, grabs my attention, as a hawk dives down the side of the hill after a pigeon with a sign on his butt saying, “desayunos”, or breakfast as we call it back in the states. My outlook alerts me that I have four overdue appointments and on Sunday Kirt will be dead twenty-three weeks. My honey, we fit together so well; I miss you!

I remember when we not quite young, well, maybe we were young, still in our twenties. You were wearing headphones while painting the family room wall. You didn't hear me because you were singing, “She’s close enough to perfect for me,” with a conviction so dear; I loved you even more. You smiled and kissed me, and went on singing and painting. Neither one of us would have ever won a singing competition, but how I miss your voice.

How do I go on without you, my Darling? Yeah, you’re right; I need to figure that out on my own.

Here, I have one for you. This is good, somebody on the widows’ support line asked this. If a widow remarries, when she and the second husband die; do the guys duel in the clouds for her? Love you.