One Sunny Day

One Sunny Day

Crows cawed, circling in a sparsely clouded sky as a breeze spoke through erect pines, that shared their fragrance with the statues in City Park.

Couples and solos meandered, stopping to snap a shot here and there. A group of schoolgirls in uniform following their teacher paused to giggle at a nude.

Crows fussed with each other more loudly, while a pair of silver-haired seniors swatted at mosquitoes as they shuffled along. A gaggle of senior girls stood outside the bathroom with hands on their hips wondering where to lunch.

From what seemed like the zenith of the atmosphere two vertical vapor trails appeared. A solitary white swan floated past and the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker could be heard.

A pair of plumes grew from each object hurtling out of the sky, as a lady contentedly sat on a park bench taking a deep breath after which she sighed in a long, slow exhalation, while a chameleon scurried across the path of bricks. “Thank you, God, for this beautiful day,” I heard her say.

The vapor trails stretched from heaven descending in the distance. A woman stood under an umbrella staring at the golden goddess with one foot perched on a globe aiming an arrow for eternity. The woman twirled her umbrella as she walked away. The earth shook, a wall of heat raced across the land, and life as we knew it ended that day.

Just Another Pint

Tired of sad and lonely, tired of depressed; want to make it go away. My love left an ache that just doesn't quit, not one little bit. I loved my life with my honey; we were both assholes from time to time, but other times we clicked along beautifully. We were the average people of this planet in love; because of love, I believe in God. Love takes a hard day’s work and transforms it into a gift for someone more important, yeah, someone more important than you.

Do you know how many people haven’t felt that? People tell me to let go of the past so I can enjoy my now, but I cling to the time when love lived in my life. Now, too many angry people want to hurt each other; who wants to go near?

Place, the other great character in any story needs to provide for the plot. I live on a tropical island bitching about being sad and lonely; why don’t I move? Where would I go?

July, the month my honey died, proves painful annually; the month of widowhood picks the scab off wounds not healed. In July lifting weights only hurts, I feel inches away from crying, but it’s my job to make myself feel better. All I can say is repeated applications of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia and hot fudge topping does wonders after four years. 

The Saggy Remainder Years Challenge

Most days I know what I believe, I think about it quite a bit. On what if days, who knows what will cross my mind?

I can see myself as a fat old lady stuck on a broke island waiting to die, which is true or as the adventurous daredevil traveling to beautiful places alone in her spare time, also true.

In between all these good times, I sure can feel sorry for myself. There’s no getting over you, my darling, even after four years.

God, thanks for the opportunity to have the tribulations that balanced my trials. One’s life should be a wild ride; oh, the shit, you do over the years.

Opting out on children means you don’t get to be grandma. It was my husband I never planned on living without. This majorly sucks and how do I let go of the loss enough to enjoy the saggy remainder years of my life?

That’s exactly the challenge; make the best out of the remainder when every day is bitch or brag and the best may be a pain-free day. Our days no longer hold wide open promise; a day working in the garden means happiness.

Daily, my husband suffered physical pain but managed to love his life and bring joy to others; he was one of those guys. I’ve seen a great spirit live a humble life in torture. I can quit complaining. This is me shutting up, accepting the saggy, remainder challenge.

Always, My Love

“Get over it,”

some have had the guts to say.

“Move along with your life,”

others counsel.

“He’d want you to be happy,”

A few console.

Fourth anniversary here in a bit

I miss being your wife

The showers of love poems

Sweet and sappy

People who like me, a small council

But no one on Earth to touch my soul

Alone, no you to hold my hand

Sampling life’s wares

Many shores to meander

Sunsets seen with toes in sand

Postcards wishing you were there

Always, my love

A Tale of Two Men

Today look to see a young man in a wheelchair, his face contorted with anger ranting at another man speaking to his mom in Spanish in San Juan airport of all places.

The hellfire torture a person feels over the loss of mobility can only be inadequately imagined, my heart felt for this soul, so I watched him rave a second time. Nothing justifies his behavior to people who were minding their own business, but my heart hurts for him none the less.

Only those who have lost a limb or mobility have any idea of how this young man hurts over the life that might have been his or what he could have done. You’re right; it’s no excuse for bad behavior, if you watch it again it’s a cry for help.

Look in the ranting man’s face; do you see rage? You’re speaking Spanish in the airport is getting on my last nerve rage?

Picture the scene that set the rage monster off, a mom chatting with and cooing over her fit and fine young military son in a way Latina women have of adoring their sons. Looking whole and wonderful her son reflected her adoration, and in hellfire, he sat dwelling on his loss; you can say, how sad or man up, but neither change that this man needs help and more compassion than he showed.

The raging man in a wheelchair may be the focus of this story, but on the flip side, we have a young man who I’d like to recognize for his cool and appropriate behavior. Way to go!!

The young man off camera spoke in reasonable tones telling him he too was military; he was talking to his mom who spoke Spanish, hoping for the angry man to empathize. Blessed are the peacemakers. 

My Life Purpose Really

Lately, nothing pleases me. I spent all morning searching for a jazz festival in the Caribbean; the Cuban Jazz Fest cheered me somewhat. How bummed must you be when planning a trip to one of the great jazz experiences on the planet doesn’t hit your yahoo button?

Maybe my biggest fault is that my love is not unconditional. I’m sorry, but it seems to me that the biggest spouters of unconditional love frequently treat each other like shit, alternating between hugging and hitting. The verbally unkind bring out the worse in me; sooner or later my mouth flies open and damage done.

Don’t call me stupid or don’t call me bitch; I would rather be alone than with a verbal abuser. Be kind or go home; it’s that simple.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of kind people in the world. Every day I encounter lovely human beings. I have people I love and who love me up to the point of, “Oh, gee, that’s sad; I’m going to miss her. What’s for dinner?”

My ties to the planet slip away, the girl always on a crusade let go. My husband would have seen the change.

Entering that final act scares me, but not like I thought it would when I was young. The worse part of now isn’t being alone; it’s being without my husband. Without him, death will ultimately be welcomed. Thinking about it helps, as long as I don’t dwell on it. What’s funny is that I could never contemplate my husband’s death, but my own I can bear.

Even on those bad days when my honey’s death feels yet unbearable, I manage to occupy myself with a movie or planning a new adventure. Today nothing helps, I miss my man in my life; I could howl and cry. If you’ve ever gotten sick and tired of something, you know how this feels. Being tired of the hurt may be helping because I trying harder, yes, there I am; that’s me.

I believe in God, who teaches me to laugh at the bizarre happenings such as the president breaking past world leaders like he’s in grammar school.

Each life has lessons and purpose; God waited, for now, to give me my biggest life purpose. That’s funny.

Alien observers posed for pictures drawn in stone; we can’t imagine how far their technology has come. Think about it. Intergalactic travelers could be covertly immersing themselves in life on earth for fun and adventure while keeping the earthlings busy fighting each other.

Things we see throughout life, pausing to shake a head for a moment before moving on didn’t make sense until everything in my life had gone; I saw something else.

We know the universe is too large for there not to be intelligent life somewhere, if not here. If our ancient civilizations depicted astronauts, I’m guessing they didn’t leave never to return; who does that?

What would it be like to discover aliens with really nothing in common with us in charge? If they owned the world banks and controlled our food supply what else could they do without our realizing that their behavior isn’t normal for earth people. 

Frankly, in America, we don’t care who runs the show as long as we get a fair shake. Other countries allow citizens a nice life with opportunity and health care. Who with so much has so little heart to take away from the disadvantaged and elderly?

If beings from another planet were caught harming earth all people of our planet would be in the trenches together. Our differences would matter little.

Why at a time when people have the capacity to live peacefully and somewhat comfortably do we war? What do six billion dollars buy? Could a guy live on a little less for the sake of others?

In our history, we’ve always been explorers; why are we more focused on repeating our barbaric history than going into space?

I’ve taken many courses and learned of the knowledge and intelligence on this planet; we do better. Why all the out of control bad behavior? Who benefits by stirring the pot?

Worrying about this is not how I should be spending the last years of my life. What I’ve seen; I know, whether anybody believes, well, quien sabe? God has given me a purpose. Thanks.

Happy Birthday

Released from a life of regular beatings at eighteen, I wanted the pain to stop. Welcome to adulthood, you’re out of the house. With other teens, I celebrated by drinking and drugging.

Nobody will ever hit me again, my fiery resolve reverberated in every cell; I still feel the resolve, but minus fire. The law was finally on my side, I had recourse if my father hit me again.

That should have felt better, but it didn’t because every hit on my baby body stored a rotten energy ready to rebound in fury. I could have been beaten into submission, but I drew a defiant resolve to survive.

The hurt and betrayal a child feels at the hands of parents tilts how you feel about the world. I believed everyone would hurt me sooner or later. Of course, that’s true, but there are limits and we can all be assholes at one time or another, but pretty much we can forgive and move on in different directions or make up.

Lucky for me, I met a man who loved me truly, held on tight and never let go. I wish life would have been simple; no, actually dealing with childhood issues became the foundation of my adult dysfunctions. S.N.A.F.U.

I’d pedal upstream like crazy, trying to bring positive things into my life only to be pulled under. I developed a hyper-spastic duodenum; that’s part of my small intestine. Life swung back and forth between good and horseshit. Did I get better?

Oh, hell no, by twenty-five, I had what they called a nervous breakdown. The out of control feeling that goes with falling apart made me think I was losing my mind. Thinking about going insane really made me crazy if you know what I mean.

In a nervous breakdown, days end by crying yourself to an exhausted sleep only to awaken to more crying. Pull it together to go to work, cry on the drive to the office, check face in the mirror before exiting the vehicle, and life goes on like normal. I remember how miserable I felt and only knew worse the day my husband died.

He told me straight out that he didn’t understand people who treated their children like that, but he held me through many tears. With him, I learned to appreciate the beauty in even a bad day.

Life punches and jabs, but then there are the moments with your head in someone’s lap and they’re stroking your face. To appreciate the strokes, I’ve had to give up focusing on the jabs. Do you have any idea how long that takes? I’ll let you know when I arrive.

Joy inhabits a day focused on even the smallest positive details; eventually, it overrides the pain. That may be one of the biggest lessons of my life; it’s a favorite. I like healing a lot.

Today, San Juan here I come with plans to go to a dog show. It’s funny but, when I told a friend at the gym, she rolled her eyes to say, “Who would want to do that?”

I would to celebrate my birthday. For years I didn’t celebrate; how sad is it when your birthday doesn’t make you happy? I hear it from others all the time, so it’s not just me.

During his life, I treated my husband to dinner or parties and gave the best gifts, including our first Rottweiler; or we went to a resort. Good God, I love that man.

Since his passing, my goal is to love myself as well as I loved him.

A lifetime of repairing self-worth follows a shamed child. What I’ve done in my lifetime says who I am; wow, who’d have thought it? I’m proud of me. Happy birthday.

The Trip

A month long trip should return with showers of stories, but I don’t care to reminisce. A storage locker of memorabilia made for melancholy days of remembering what my life once was. 

I was young. I was strong. I was smart. None of which I am any longer. No boo-hoo, to be on the downhill side of life I find is becoming acceptable. The skills I brought to my life mute with each year after bringing me through challenging  productive years. 

Boxes of letters from grateful clients praising how well their dog was doing after sessions with me bring a smile before dumping them in the trash. Stacks of winning dog show ribbons must go; what good are they? I’m on the letting go side of life. 

Kirt’s things give me grief, the man had a tool for everything. A gift of a few to a neighbor man where I stayed made another man happy. He, in turn, supplied us with boiled crab on the weekend. Oh, joy.

Tasty cracklins congealed in the arteries of my brain on the Sunday a  friend and I drove part of the Natchez Trace. Just think, a store dedicated to cracklins; I’m so glad I don’t live in that neighborhood. 

We toured old Southern graveyards with sections dedicated to Confederacy soldiers and others filled with the area’s landed gentry, fenced in crypts with ornate ironwork. Guardian angels open hands and wings to a loved one in the grave and in the middle of it all, sat a huge chunk of marble. The shiny surface with a simple cut edge demanded my attention. Looking up the hill in the afternoon light I shaded my eyes to see the name and dates on the tombstone. The sun ducked behind a cloud, in large letters one word appeared; DICK. My palms got sweaty. My eyes crossed. Good heavens, this is where the Dicks are buried. I’m ever so grateful to not be in the section where the Bitches are buried. 

The French Quarter, the Monteleone Hotel, and the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival deliver the people watching, the conversation eavesdropping I enjoy. Every writer yearns to introduce us to interesting or memorable characters, so there we were facing a crusty on old Southerner dripping with the nuance of place, who told us about the people populating his novels, one of which had won a Pulitzer. The other men wanted to be him, and, well, what woman isn’t enamored by a fine Southern man? Speaking of fine men, the ever charming Dick Cavett captivated the crowd; who with a brain doesn’t love him?

There’s an art to being alone in a crowd happily; moving to the beat of the music during the French Quarter Fest puts a smile on the face that others respond to, so I have thousands of momentary friends. Music, food, and a Chinese massage made my day. I've overdosed on people, most wonderful and charming, just too many, so return to a life with more solitude brings balance. 

Lightning and thunder lace the afternoon showers with special effects. I’m convinced more than ever that we’ve been invaded by an alien being or energy. Saw the signs, but they’re subliminal; how many of us catch the obvious let alone the obscured? This force affects people in odd ways. The stories make us shake our heads uncomprehending. You hear a story, but don’t realize the importance until later which makes putting these odd events together to form some sort of a picture difficult. Who knows; I could just be getting senile.   

  

Post Trip Blues

We were going to weather every storm and enjoy every sunset together. Before that horrid day in July of 2013, I hadn’t thought about life without him more that briefly; I couldn’t contemplate being without my honey. 

So often one person in a relationship cares more than the other. Sometimes people take turns, but when you get it right and you both care it’s beautiful. For the rest of my life I may never have that beauty again; why wouldn’t I be sad?  

I hate being sad, during the last three years I’ve traveled to Costa Rica, Cuba, Trinidad, the Dominican Republic, New Orleans, and Orlando; all were fantastic. Living on a lush tropical island poses no hardship, so why do I think of these last years as miserable? 

Accepting my new reality is another one of those sheer cliffs to be climbed. After three years some would say not a new reality, but to me as yet unacceptable. I have a reputation for being stubborn. 

Perhaps I’m feeling post trip blues because for a month living in St. Rose, Louisiana I lived more in the moment and thought of Kirt less. 

The artwork collected at auctions with the passion of a zealot lays on the floor waiting to be re-framed. Pray, God, I live long enough to see pretty pictures on my concrete walls.  

My overall mental health can easily be identified by what I’m wearing. Days in my honey’s 1990’s cotton pants mean moody or who gives a shit.Positive days wear a new outfit and makeup. And, Friends, if there ever were an age for makeup I have surely found it. 

Would that I was an old soul with wisdom seeping out my pores, but my soul is young; I make mistakes. 

So much to see, and go, and do beg me to come and play, but a to the bone budget demands frugality. Discipline is difficult in a poor me frame of mind, but if I 

want another adventure, I’d better kiss it hello. 

Speaking of frames I lost the nails and eye hooks; I’d better learn those words in Spanish before shopping. 

Yes, it’s the post trip blues, just selecting a potential next trip has me feeling a tad perkier or maybe it’s fresh air after the rain. Today is a friend’s birthday; happy birthday, Gloria! 

We’re going for decadent chocolate cake before I hit the gym. 

Friends?

My life has developed a fairly even pace. Tears are no longer a regular part of the program and after a lifetime of being half of a we, I’m comfortable enough going alone.

A widower once told me to strive towards contentment. I’m pleased with the life I’ve led, so now that time has eased the pain of my loss, I am content or as content as an old overachiever ever gets.

With my wonderful Aunt Margaret gone I have less in Louisiana to share warm feelings. Ever since I left New Orleans at the age of twelve, I’ve wanted to return to live at least part of the year. Until I’m ready to move I hope to develop a cadre of friends.

The first couple of weeks with you were awesome. I can’t thank you enough; that time was a gift to my spirit. We obviously weren’t meant to live in close proximity, but when treated to small doses of each other it would be good?

Yes, it’s all about friends. Into my life many lovely people have come and gone; I’ve been blessed. Some of my favorite people shared a mutual interest or passion, which for me has always had something to do with dogs.

In this new phase of life, I’m exploring possibilities. I see the last quarter of my life as empty pages waiting to compliment an interesting life.

I’ve learned that a fine acquaintance becomes a friend after the first altercation/disagreement. My gratitude for allowing me your sofa and into your life is enormous; you always were a good guy in my book. I hope you remember the good times as well as I do.

In two weeks I’ll be having oysters in Amite with Margaret’s sister, and then the Tennessee Williams, which comes before the French Quarter Fest. I love New Orleans. Bookstores, blues, jazz, writers’ groups, and City Park, I can’t wait. Perhaps you’ll meet me for coffee?

Shall We Continue

Anyone who tells you being old is a state of mind isn’t yet old enough to know. At best we have aches and pains to deal with, at worst its terminal illness and death; that’s our reality.

Yesterday was my husband’s birthday; he would have been seventy-four. He turned seventy on his last live birthday; his friend, Pablo threw a fine party for him. It pleases me to remember how happy my darling was that day.

At ninety-four, my mom is healthy enough that she’s optimistically reaching for one hundred. A happy dotage living among her offspring; can you picture all the happy old bubbies/abuelas in the world? We love them. They gave shape to the character of our generation. My mom was a child of the Great Depression whose pain I could see clearly when she told stories of relief shoes and food lines.

If we were to pick a favorite, most instrumental woman in our life, mine would be my father’s sister, my aunt Margaret, who at eighty-eight begged me to help her die. I turned cold when I heard her ask. In one of my more selfish moments, I told her I couldn’t jeopardize my soul by such an act and how she could do it by herself if that was her true intention; she never did, but ten months later God took her.

At some point for all of us, the end will be the option. Deal with it or be a big pussy about it, nothing changes.

All I know is that if this is to be my last sunset, I don’t want to be in the house watching TV. To look at someone, smile, and be happy compensates for enduring many aches. To say, thank you for the small things people do for me gives me pleasure.

Blessed with the time to contemplate how others have helped me or been kind, I find myself extraordinarily grateful.

Until unable, I shall as we said in the late seventies or maybe early eighties, keep on truckin!

Love of My Life

Morning mist clings to the lake. Chirping birds cheer my spirit. Sunlight filtered through the trees reminds me of pleasant mornings throughout my life. A new day, I can cherish or screw up any way I want; what’ll it be?

The pleasantness of morning, that’s something I seldom, had time to savor during my working years. Now, coffee and cooing doves can be leisurely enjoyed. Retirement, that’s something I didn’t really want.

After my husband, my business was the most important thing in the world to me. I enjoyed the challenge of the problems of the day and happy dogs in my care made me feel useful. Had Kirt died before I retired, I’d still be there working today, but that didn’t happen.

He could no longer tolerate cold weather; his hands turned into painful claws in fall. We couldn’t wait for winter. We had to go south. I didn’t want to leave my home of thirty years or my business that gave me a sense of self-satisfaction, but I loved my husband so much more.

Before a cold spell, we loaded the car, said goodbye, and headed to New Orleans. The Great Recession had made business difficult. Many of my clients were in financial crisis and I had to carry some of my bread and butter accounts; holding on was hard, but I managed to squeak along. Sooner or later we’d get past this, but Kirt suffered so much that fall. There was nothing else to do.

My heart beat for that man; nothing mattered except getting him where he could be more comfortable. New Orleans, a stop on the way to our house in Puerto Rico turned into the place he lost a toe. Dr. Davila of the New Orleans VA counseled me, as well as taking great care of Kirt. I’d always wanted to retire to New Orleans so when the time came to leave I went to City Park for a good pout.

Why is it you hear of so many guys retiring, moving to warm weather, and then a couple of years later you hear they died? Someone told me she heard that Smoki our cat died, that we put him to sleep. He purred on my lap well past my husband. Rumors are funny.

You never really know how some else feels, but you can get so close; it’s like you are two halves of the whole. He felt like he was in paradise the last two years of his life here where the spectacular sunrise and sunset was a pause for celebration.

His soul soared over this valley in his dreams, as his body withered.  The love of my life died.

Slowly Better

Going on four years and still no life I want in sight. How lucky I’ve been, I had no idea. Each day presents so many problems; it’s easy to get caught up in what’s wrong with everything.

At the end of my road, I live in a beautiful green valley with a lake where I’m never really cold. I’m blessed. My husband’s ashes sprinkled on the lawn surround me; that’s the best we can do these days. The warm memory of our happy days here helps me deal with his loss.

All through my life, I’ve been on one quest or another. Striving for a goal always added zest, but I’ve run out of gas and need to switch to solar like the dinosaur generation consuming fossil fuels. So this is what it feels like to be old.

I may as well own it like so many changes I didn’t want. To look at young couples with fresh skin so in love and feel in my soul the memory, and then, to walk alone without a hand to hold when I’ve always held his hand forces me to be strong if I want to move along.

I could stay home and garden; I’ve done it before, but I’ve always seen myself traveling as a senior, so I believe I need to go with that. I could devote the years I have left to travel and not see the world. It’s all lonely without him.

As I recover from my grief I find my two greatest motivators to be boredom and since Kirt died I dropped my causes, except to bitch on Facebook, which is nothing.

Over the last few years, I’ve drifted from pain to a neutral, which I preferred to that hard ass hurt; that’s a murky abyss I need to be paddling away from post haste, like right now because before I wasn’t well enough to do anymore.

America is going to hell in a hand basket and I’m focusing on inner harmony; that’s sick, but you have to have to give it.   

Memories on Wednesday

Wednesday morning, the air is still, and the clouds gray; that means the water isn’t working today. Trouble is I worked out at the gym on Monday and Tuesday, so I need to let my body rest. As much as I enjoy the endorphin release working out five days a week makes me feel weak; strange, right?

Kirt’s birthday comes next month; the stars were in perfect alignment to give me someone to love. The least likely man on earth won my love.

Before I met Kirt’s best friend a handsome young engineer asked me to marry him. After I said yes, he became critical of how I did things; at first I’d just accommodate his wishes, but then he started telling me that I bowled wrong and how I should be throwing the ball. That didn’t set right because I beat him at bowling regularly. “I’m beating you and you’re telling me how to do it!”

How can someone tell you how to do something you do better than they do? He sounded so adamant that when I listened to how it should be done, I heard a warning from God.

A friend introduced me to a hillbilly guy with hair like Elvis who oozed sex appeal. He sold black beauties; we became good friends and flirted with the idea of more. Frequently, we hung out with his buddy who recently returned from the Army.

The privilege of a good education by the nuns gave me a strong sense of morality and could only flirt with the darkness of a real low life. As I pulled away from a classic sixties bad boy his buddy the Army guy talked with me non-stop; earthy countryman listened to me and asked questions. I wondered what growing up in the hills felt like as opposed to where I grew up in the city. He told me about picking beans when he was eight and working on a tobacco farm at ten. I respected him for being strong enough to work at that age when I had a hard enough time doing well in school and staying out of trouble.

Girls learn about marrying well as if it’s in our DNA. I curled my lip at the thought of being attracted to Kirt. I had dated Mendel men and college graduates; my prospects were loftier than the son of a garage mechanic. I enjoyed dates at fine restaurants, the Playboy Club, and shows. This man from Tennessee could offer nothing more than a paycheck and his heart.

My grandmother, my nana, asked how my date was when I came home from my first date with Kirt. “This is the man I’m going to marry,” I announced. She laughed. That was almost a half a century ago.   

Just Singing the Blues

In that stage grief between mourning and hope, I toss sometimes mourning and other times pleased to be alive. Let go of the past; that’s what people say. How do I let go of the best of my life?

For all the fun things he was there, loving me. I miss being loved more than anything. I never thought about loving myself. Most days I didn’t think about liking myself preferring always to focus on my shortcomings.

How do I let go of the person who loved me the most? I can’t, so I have to hold him in my heart and continue because I still have purpose in this life. Frequently, I wish my life came with a how-to manual. I struggle with damn near everything; probably that’s just me. Being with Kirt made even challenges fun, we loved life together.

I’m not sure how to go on, but three and a half years later it would seem that I’m doing so, however poorly. So this is what it means to be on the downhill slide of life with losses everywhere and days numbered. Ok, that sucks; now what?

I’m thinking New Orleans, jazz, road trip down the gulf coast of Florida, and a whole mess of oysters. What do you say?

My Heart, A Poem

My heart is a lovely place to be with wisps of light and love

Surrounded by souls of every dog I’ve ever known

Beauty becomes us, but I couldn’t seem to find mine

Pretty exterior attracts cads like a hand to a glove

Most young men only want to make you moan

One great guy loved me for a really long time

It’s easier to see your beauty if someone else finds it first

A beaten body can harbor a sunken soul

As on drowning victim can die of thirst

Life’s travails take their toll

A healing heart hides not from pain

It flicks searching for fellow wisps of light on this earthly plane

Legacy of Love

Hi, if you’ve lost someone you truly love I don’t need to tell you how difficult it is to get back to making the best out of your life.

Three and a half years after losing my love, he’s on my mind and I’m missing him. Going here and there or doing this and that doesn’t stop the hurt.  When I manage to focus on now, when I’m in the moment I feel better, so I’m really trying.

When I was young I didn’t understand how someone could hurt you if they loved you. I felt so unloved that I believed I should have been an abortion; it would have been better for all involved.

During my married life, I grew up knowing what it felt like to be loved. That gave me the strength for every good thing I’ve done in my life. I’m a much better person because of my husband’s love.

Without him, it’s difficult to be strong, but that’s what I must do if my remaining years are going to be worth a damn. Wallowing in weakness isn’t my style; bitch about it, fix it and move on is. I mean you’ve got to bitch a little.

Vulnerability increases with age; I find that unsettling. Now, when someone pushes me beyond my comfort level or what I think to be right, I have no one to look to for support; it’s all on me. The gym is a metaphor for my life. Nobody’s going to lift this weight for me.

After singing the blues I want to thank God for putting Kirt in my life; he taught me to gaze at a flower, a sunset, a shooting star and to feel the beauty.   At three and a half years a widow walking in the shadow of death I may be approaching the ridge of acceptance.

I know love; that will stay with me. I haven’t lost it to bitterness.

To anyone reading this who has lost your soul mate, there is a world wide web of caring, love, and empathy saying,”Sorry for your loss. Be gentle with yourself.”