The Flow

In the past two years I’ve been lazy, lacking motivation or self-discipline. Nothing really matters anymore, I hated being alive without my husband. When your life implodes, you’re left a shell, a Gregor, a big roach carcass.

My re-make began with who the hell cares, why am I bothering and, oh, screw it.

What did I still like? Or love?  Anything? ……..Not a lot…..

In my youth, I went through an agnostic phase, but it shocked me that I could be so angry with my creator. God, I was pissed.  Life challenged and punched us, but we made sweet lemonade. God gave me to love, someone, who loved me.

Why wasn’t I dead? I don’t know, but I believe God has plans. And since we’ve had a long term relationship, I’ve been going with the flow, as much as I accepted my loss.

  

Acceptance

     Mourning came in stages. The first six months tortured me with the greatest loss of my life; everything I ever did wrong during my marriage haunted me. A harsh look or loss of temper poked me in the middle of the night. Oh, how I wished I hadn’t done that. I was tired, lazy didn’t want to do the little things that would have meant so much to the man I miss so terribly.

     I lamented my mistakes. My darling, I am so sorry for all I didn’t do. My inadequacies plague me. It hurt so much to realize I’d never be with you again in this life. This loss grieved me beyond what I thought I could bear.

     The depth of who you are never came to me completely while you were alive. The beauty of you unfolded in a year of remembering. How being with you allowed me to become more fully the self I am supposed to be astonished me as I saw in retrospect. You had to be a strong man to put up with me all of those years. That you loved me as much as you did never failed to amaze me. I didn’t get why you loved me so much, but I’ve always been grateful.

     That your (Kirt’s) soul, spirit, or essence is intact became my overriding concern. I meditated on that until I realized it was a matter of faith that I must decide and give conviction to whatever belief I chose. In some moments my belief is firm, solid and then there are times… 

     If I believe that Kirt’s essence exists in a meaningful way then it’s my duty to live out my life with purpose. The law of karma guides my position on things. I may doubt most things given the chance to talk myself out of it; I may have been one of the early sophists, J but I have a perfect acceptance of karma; is not to say I have depth of understanding on anything.

     When I’m in harmony with my higher purpose, I’m in good spirit despite the troublesome items of life. This harmony eludes me since Kirt’s passing.

 

       

I Racist, No, I See Our Common Ground

I racist, so if I understand correctly, black people see the world as we. If it happens to one of us, it can happen to all. You have a group identification, as black, before you see your own individuality?

White people, the man said, see themselves as individuals. I must agree with that. When the rich people controlling your life is white same as you, you have to have different ways of viewing them. I’d be stupid to run around berating the white banker, who wouldn’t give me a decent interest rate because I’m a woman, or the white cop who pulled me over to hit on me, but gave me a ticket because I wouldn’t co-operate. Although I must admit that one hasn’t happened in a while; could it be because sexism has diminished?

Worry about hurting my feelings? That’s just another canard!

Understand the problem, MONEY & POWER; until you have either of them, you get treated to varying degrees of shit in society.

I could go into a store in my work clothes, jeans and a tee shirt to be greeted with a curt, “What?” The same clerk says, “Yes, ma’am, may I help you,” when I’m dressed in better clothes and wearing diamonds.

You think it’s about black and white? Wonder why so many blacks drop out of the fight when they make it? Black Republicans, and you’re talking about white liberals not meeting some benchmark of understanding; I don’t get it.

I remember the older white man, put his arm around the shoulders of a black entrepreneur, he leaned in close, the black man brought his head nearer to the white man, who whispered in his ear, “Money’s all green, right!” They nodded and laughed, adjourned to their seats at the table, every man for himself.

MONEY & POWER is untamed and corrupt, if you get enough, you’ll be assimilated.  White or black, it’s rich versus poor.

Get the poor scrapping at the bottom of the monetary trickle down and the one percent dodges the tax bullet.

What was the reason they can’t pony up to cushion the bottom just a bit or allow us the benefits we’ve earned over a lifetime? Oh, it’s theirs and they’re keeping it.

I’m just one of the dumb white hicks, but black people aren’t the ones I have problems with; it’s the powerful bastards trying to unwind our safety nets.

They take private jets, while bitching that you can afford a six pack on the weekend. To the rich we’re just white heads and black heads on the face of the riff-raff.

MONEY & POWER make college education unaffordable and gives scholarships to buddies’ children.

Black or white, it’s because of the sacrifices of our ancestors that union laws protect us; or that we have any rights at all.

We’re in the same hole. I don’t want to stand on your head to get out, and I don’t want anyone standing on mine, so said the silly, liberal, white woman,

Let’s be friends. We need to work together.

Second Anniversary

Second anniversary, how sweet, we celebrated with dinner, an alcoholic drink, and frolicking sex.  He bought flowers and a card; signed it with a love poem just for me.

We were only getting acquainted, who I was I hadn’t found out, yet. He was just this big, strong, handsome guy, who wanted me there, when he got home.

These first years, when I learned to live without fear flew past. Responsibilities and rituals replaced duck and hide in my life. Clean the house, wash clothes, make dinner; there you have my responsibility. No one yelled at me, or thought to hit me. Sweet.

Getting the feel for someone takes time, and being an older guy, he continued doing most of the stuff he did before; his wife had a whole world to explore.

Bars and cars, my hubby enjoyed; I got into it a bit, but live music did it for me.  My arms around him, cruising down the highway on his Triumph motorcycle gave us the green countryside of Illinois and neighboring states. We found our common ground.

Hugging, kissing, hand holding, and having sweaty sex bonded us physically. Even now my fingers tingle, nipples harden, and heart pumps harder, when images of us cross my mind.

What a paradox, how slowly and quickly two years go by. Two years ago the sky was cloudy, just as today. Today there’s no lightning or thunder, or crying and screaming. How quickly a lifetime is over.

We matured, learning to love each other with a depth I never thought those two could manage. Somehow, we created a life in which we thrived individually, and together; not bad for a couple of young dummies.

My second anniversary as a widow, without you, brings the reflection of a woman with her man beside her in spirit. After two years of torture, I can see and feel you again. Why did it take so long?  Why am I so thick?

Deadline Two Years Ago

The second anniversary of my honey’s death comes in six days. The enormity of who and what I’ve lost makes me shutter.  But as I calm down, I can feel his love around me.

Days, when I feel him traveling with me, please me; yesterday, at the mineral baths in Coamo, I felt him. The mountain vibes and aruvadic music relaxed me in the hot water to the point of experiencing his positive presence. Peace, how seldom I’ve felt it in a lifetime.

The trials of life buffet me as never before. It sucks to be old and alone, when you’ve been part of a happy couple. The car maintenance alone wipes me out. I hate doing that.

I trusted everything about my husband; he did what was best for us, no fooling. My other trusted inner circle passed after him.

People aren’t who you want them to be; who they are, takes time to discover. A new inner circle takes time.

For my love, I walked away from my business and life at home in Illinois to live two years with him on a tropical island. I’m not crazy about the part where he left me, but I wouldn’t miss the two years together for anything.

Alone on a tropical island isn’t for everyone; I’m not sure it’s for me. For now, I’m embracing the aloneness; hanging with my dogs, sleeping, watching movies, and trying to figure out how to help the Puerto Rican island dogs. Oh, and going to the gym, which I do three or four days a week.

MY friend, another widow, enjoys much the same things as I, so we go to festivals, ballet, the bath in Coamo, and beaches. The blue of the Atlantic Ocean mixed with the verdant green island touched by orange, purple, and rose softens my nerves. She’s fun.

My lonely life doesn’t hurt as much. That means I’m healing, but tears come without warning, some good, some bad.

He was so good to be with; I miss him.  

  

Bye Bye, Brother, Bye Bye

Two years after the best in my life left, I’m discarding the negative. To jerk the umbilicus out of my gut caused me pain until the small sigh of relief.

The other love of my life my baby brother, so handsome and charming when you wanted to be, but more often moody and impossible to please. This one excelled in zingers designed to hurt; undermining my self-confidence or embarrassing me puffed you up with bonus points.

Hurting me you did for sport. Why? Kirt thought you just never out grew childhood behavior. Kirt made me see that giving it right back didn’t make me feel better. The whole time I was with that man, all we ever did was to try to help you. Loving you as I did prevented me from hurling the zingers back, seeing you screw your life up, while ridiculing me pushed Kirt to the point of anger. My lovely man, who did so much for you. And, stupid, he didn’t do it because you were so great; he did it because he loved me.

Kirt and I were active, upstanding, respected members of the community. When we took you out to dinner in the local diner, did you think talking loudly about your sordid experiences in prison demeaned us? Did ordering my employees around, telling them to get me right away or get you a cup of coffee, make them think less of us?

You’d come to our celebrations to act mean and angry; verbally abusing your son at one party until one of my guests wanted to take you out back to have a good talk on behavior.

Kirt knew that I wanted to hear what was happening with my brother, but would be out of sorts for days after you came to visit, so he’d visit with you for hours, while you told your tale of current woe for hours. And you had no clue when he’d had it with you, and told you off.

Yes, brother Bill, you were a pain in his ass. He always thought you were a spoiled brat, but he lived under my dictum: love me, love my family.

Mom sent you to live with us, when we first got married. Before you arrived, we were having sex all over the house. Do you think he was jumping through hoops happy to see you every night?

We were so proud when you did the one bit of self-improvement in your life with that truck driving course you took. We knew how many experienced truckers were out of work at the time, but you did something in a positive direction.

Kirt used all of his influence in the company, a union shop with no lay-offs, when your only driving experience was hauling horseshit from the track to the mushroom farm. He vouched for you; and how did you repay Kirt?

When a truck driver puts a tractor and a trailer together, it’s the driver’s responsibility, yours! The company had the coupling tested who was at fault came up in the resulting lawsuits.  Come on, how f’ing stupid are you?

Brother Bill came to our house to tell Kirt how he was going to burn down the shop where they worked, when Brother Bill was fired for the carelessness that caused that accident. Kirt loved hearing how you planned to torch his place of employment, as you raged.

With as much pleasure as you too in trying to embarrass me in later years, you’ll get a charge out of the years of company Christmas parties, when the guys would line up to dance with me, so they could tell how terrific Kirt was and what an asshole my brother was. All the stories they told of how you could watch a man bust his balls without lifting a finger to help.

My favorite part of these stories were how good my honey was. I listened to them and thanked them for sharing. Lastly I reminded them that I picked my husband, not my brother.

I assume it was the last time you were arrested, the time shortly before we left for Puerto Rico, he rode with you from our home in Yorkville to western Iowa, where you had to go to court. He listened to you whine all the way out there, as he sat in sheer agony. The judge saw my husband’s pain. Lucky for you he thought he was your father and gave you leniency.

Do you know how much money we ante-ed up for lawyers and bail for you? It never occurred to you to pay it back or say thanks.  

And believe it or not, we had other things we could have done with the thousands that went to your defense.

The one time he ever called on you for anything; you wouldn’t do it.

“Call your sister; she’s upset. I can’t get her to calm down; talk to her.”

You laughingly told him to tell me to get another house and refused. I’ll bet you were surprised when he came unglued after a lifetime of tolerating you.

Yes, Brother Bill, you were a pain in his ass. And just to inform you that you showing your ass to people I knew only made you look bad.  

In the two years he’s been gone you haven’t had the decency to call me or send a card saying, sorry for your loss.

Goodbye, Bill, so long. I love the baby brother you were; the man you’ve become, well, I’d rather not bother.

Mommy Issues Need to be Over

 Catharsis, that’s what I need, a good f’ing enema. Shit my guts out and let the stink fall where it may.

Whatever I put my thoughts or energy into becomes the most important item of my day. Shopping or taking care of the dogs momentarily takes it out of my mind, but sooner or later I get back to it.

How do you multi-task doing wonderful, positive things, while pondering why your mother didn’t love you? So maybe, it’s time to spill my guts and get it out of my system.

Mommy, I remember when I was four I did something that made you very angry. So scared by your wrath I ran around the dining room table to escape, but you cornered me by the china hutch and kicked the sick out of me; until my head throbbed. You instilled fear.

At five I failed a lesson of focus and pay attention. It was the fourth of July, fireworks popped up and down the block. You wanted to be nice to me. The sparkler held firmly in my hand, as you lit the little grey stick, moved ever so slightly, when the folks across the street lit off a firecracker.

The flash of the stick in my hand struck my mother on the thumb. Her shriek scared me witless; I just stood there with my mouth open, holding that stupid sparkler.

The ember died; I stood on the porch and cried, knowing something bad was going to follow. I expected to get hit, but now, I realize your hand hurt too much.  Scared and waiting, I stood in the corner on the porch; until finally, you came out carrying a suitcase.

“You don’t love me. You burned me. I packed your stuff; get out!”

At first I was just happy not to get hit. She closed the door behind her as she went back in the house. The tiny joy of escaping a beating became lost in a sea of despair. I don’t know how long I stood there crying, but cried it out.

A five year old standing on the porch knowing, you’re not welcome, inside feels alone deep in the little soul. I did not know what to do. Terrified, abandoned, I dragged my suitcase down the street to the corner before mommy came to get me.

This isn’t going to be a laundry list of what the woman has done to me.

I feel sorry for you, Evelyn, whatever made you so wicked to me, must have been hell, but you have continued to not love me throughout my life. Why did you hate me?

Loving you, but being forbidden to touch you or hug you, hurt.

When we can’t love, we’re defective somehow. I know you’re capable of love. Without a broken wing I can’t seem to connect with you, and I’m tired of trying.

We bonded over the deaths of our husbands. It was swell; once over the cold war began again. Mom, I don’t like this game; I quit.

At your age, sooner or later God or the devil is going to be reaching out for you, so I’ll just say good luck, thanks for the womb.