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

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.

Take a Look

Old age, the new frontier of my life, I didn’t believe I’d live this long. With this coming birthday there is no politely thinking of myself as older, but somehow still hip or cool; I’m an old lady.

Goodbye days of admiring glances as I walk past; hello, nobody notices. I’m just another granny weaving my way through the crowd.

My brief escape to Condado and beyond gave me another glimpse into life alone and on the go. In this part of the story, I dined on the beach, straining to hear snatches of conversation, but couldn’t.

A repeating loud, phony laugh regularly caught my attention. Bitterness dripped from the edges of each ha-hah-hah and each time three. I heard the call for help from the next table, a family gathering of a man and a woman with offspring’s young families all dressed to the teeth, a fine legacy to be sure.

The family, the picture of success made me doubt the hollow laugh could come from there. I searched the water for cruise ship lights. Ha-hah-hah, there it came again a plaintive howl.

Affluent young locals laughed near the bar, while families or couples chatted at tables, some body language better than others; I saw no one who went with the lonely laugh.

Caught in mid-laugh, I saw from a wide open mouth, dry sound ejected; only the corners of his eyes confirmed the sadness, the remainder of his countenance radiated pride.

I sent a flicker of light in his direction as I wished to God for more nights with my honey.

A nearby couple caught my eye, you know the ones so into themselves that any contact invading their energy, they suffer. The waiter after receiving the order from the man in his fifties, who immediately turned his full attention to his lady, seemed stunned to be so completely shut out, so quickly; it was fun to see.

In restaurants, we commonly see people’s energy entwine creating a cocoon or you see the ones glancing about the room hoping for someone to relate to other than present company. I have never seen a couple create an energy vortex that looked like a black in a restaurant before; have you?

Soft light, club jazz, the hum of conversation, I scan the scene for clothes I like; a beautiful dress or a well-draped man demands notice. Simple outfits, the woman in black pants and an olive loose knit sweater and the equally lean man in shades of khaki, attracted my attention about two o’clock in my sight line.

The calamari melted on my tongue, the party of one at my table blissed out; I hate it when older people grunt when the food is good, but I’m afraid I may have.

I glanced at two o’clock which went dark, like black hole dark in a circle just big enough for them. This disconcerted me, but another piece of calamari calmed me down. The waiter walked past their table with the order; no energy called to him.

I trained in some soft tissue energy methods, which is why I can sometimes see or feel the energy. That’s pretty weird at first, for a long time I thought it had bullshit written all over it, and then, I felt it.

I’m not some crazy old lady telling you that these were aliens; no human couple I know could pull the light in around themselves achieving that level of privacy in public.

Believe me, I don’t want to be telling you that folks from far-far-away dined with me on Saturday, but unless technology exists to build personal walls what else could it be?

Am I crazy? This question surfaces now and again, but I don’t believe so; in less than a decade I lost my husband, business, nest egg, best friends, and now I’m an old lady. It wouldn’t be an understatement to say I’ve been through a lot, but healing.

Regular exercise and frequent travel feel positive; I mean I’m still fat and sad, but not as much. That’s way better than I felt before and I have hopes and goals again, so I believe in my mental health. Of course, side effects can be a bitch, so judge for yourself.

What seems nuts to me is taking away the needs of the poor for the wants of the rich.  How many human beings can look at another who hasn’t harmed you and say, die? People who become rich frequently give back; it’s the human thing to do.

Without someone to stir the pot I find people to be kind. Is it crazy to question those with the unfair advantage, who treat us as the next old tail they want to eat? Or is greed just another substance abuse?

With a short life expectancy enjoying my day became personal. Working people paid into the Social Security Fund, which is one of our best benefits for this time of life.

Am I crazy to believe that the aberrant elite controlling our planet aren’t like the rest of us because they’re not from here? It’s easier to believe I’m bat shit bonkers than that aliens have quietly invaded us. What do we do?

I mean, if they’re in a position of absolute power and they don’t like us, we’re screwed. We need to know who we’re dealing with before we don’t like the terms of engagement.

We should have evolved beyond oppressed masses and pagan parties at the top. Greed beyond the boundaries of satisfaction is not healthy or normal, like schoolboys running through a store grabbing. That’s the same shit that got us in trouble around 2008; we’re falling for it again. Doesn’t that seem too stupid to be real?

When times are good as they are now for the rich, people have fun, maybe, do something good for the community; who continues to plunder with full coffers? I’m not saying all greedy bastards are aliens, but something’s not right.

    

My Angel

Dearest Sister,

Very happy you’re better. Please, be healthy! I need you in my life. We cling to each other as girls in a raft.

To be with you again soaking up your loving care, I can’t wait. Last I saw you was during the worse time of my life. I never could look at life without my husband; you made me feel safe and not alone. It felt like the first growth of life after devastation.

How many times in a lifetime do you recognize a soul mate across a room crowded or otherwise? And, yet, there we were.

Can we doubt God has a plan? You were the angel whose caring reminded me that God cares. Your presence united us; being mad with God doesn’t feel nice.

I miss our conversations and am eager to get to know your country better. Who am I kidding? I can’t wait to hear the jazz, while I hear music I visit my happy place.

Two lifelong dog lovers attending an international FCI dog show; I shiver with delight; can’t wait. To stay with you until the book expo in January would be unfair, so we’ll limit my stay; you say how long. Between now and then I’ll be budgeting.

An unscrupulous company has been burrowing into my checking account, almost caused a huge problem when I was in New Orleans. I bought something on the internet, a cosmetic company began sending and charging for cosmetics that went to my post office box. The purchase as understood by me was a one time deal and I’ll let you know if I want more.

On my trip to New Orleans I encountered difficulty, of course, I budget for some but stood at the counter with not enough in my account to work already done. By the grace of God, I had just enough cash on me to cover. I don’t normally carry more than a twenty or two. My heart beat crazy counting.

I’m too old for this stress. I’m going to the bank to find out how to stop this. Nothing I saw on the cosmetics company website lead me to believe we had an ongoing relationship. I’ll bet this happens frequently. This seems like a sharp business practice, huh!

I could have been so screwed because big business didn’t play fair again. I’ve had a hard time since my return home; health comes with nourishment and exercise. As long as my government doesn’t default on me, I can handle my life.

When you’re up for it please send the correct name of the dog show and dates, town, etc. And the same for the jazz fest. Costs.

Let’s pray we’re not too old for fun; huh, Sister! 

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?

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.   

Not Home Alone for Christmas

Christmas, the time of family caring and sharing comes crashing down on those of us left alone. My fourth Christmas without my husband won’t be home alone.  A flurry of activity in San Juan with a friend I met in Santo Domingo last year should occupy this holiday.

My lament when Kirt lived was we didn’t have a big family to share the holiday. His people died, mine moved away or brought the woe in woe is me. On our holidays at Starved Rock Lodge, we lounged before a roaring fire in a huge stone fireplace decorated with animal heads and garland, photographed bald eagles, and swam in an indoor pool. I loved the person I was with and now I’m alone with an acquaintance.

It sucks, right? That’s always going to suck. Being positive is a conscious choice; noticing every slight, anger at every wrong, and in general keenly observant of what is wrong is my heritage. On which side of the family I’m not going to tell you.

Work to mend the shreds of my heart continues. I choose not be melancholy; I choose to be happy. Somebody, please tell me; how do I do this? I’ve been sad so long that it feels like carrying a brick in my backpack.

On my fourth Christmas without my beloved, I’ll soak in the beauty of San Juan, while listening to the life story of a new friend. I won’t be alone. Be well.

We Change

People say that we don’t change, but I’m here to tell you we do. During my teens and twenties, it seemed to me that I observed more, knew more and understood more than most people around me. I was known to be smart. Now, I know I’m just a dummy with an ego.

Knowing this frees me from effort to save face. Before I realized this I thought I just had a fuck you attitude. Grief, a realm of its own, forced me into new behavior. I hadn’t been this angry or sworn this much since the terrible teens.

To top it all off I’m a Type A personality who ran out of gas. In my deepest depression, I made shorter lists; column A: go to movies and gym, column B: research methods of suicide.

I made goals to travel, to exercise and to explore the island. In some ways I haven’t changed; throughout my life, I’ve made lists and set goals. In those dark years after Kirt’s death, I didn’t recognize myself without his light shining on me and reflecting mine back. The little old list maker planned her way to a new life. Hah!

Trouble is in my head I’m surrounded by burned out shells and broken branches. To do all the right things, the things you hope will cheer you and soothe that screaming ass pain doesn’t get great results in the presence of overwhelming loss. It makes me think about holistic healing that heals precious bit by bit.

Recently, I read something by a man within hand grenade range of my age; in this piece, he congratulated himself for his wisdom, maturity, and courage. He saw himself as a role model; his friends heartily agreed.

Could this have possibly made me feel any more fucked up? I know nothing; I question everything. Everything dear disappeared; nobody knows my name.

Remember Janis Joplin belting out, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose;” why not, huh?

Now What

Difficult doesn’t begin to describe mourning, to have your heart broken and continue to live doesn’t compute. Not wanting to live, not caring, sometimes hating everything, the tug-of-war of strong emotions leaves me worn like arthritis plaguing my joints.

Just make myself feel better, create a pleasant day, so I don’t hurt as much.  Doesn’t that sound pathetic; it was. After getting up to tumble and fall over and over, I’m gaining strength physically and emotionally or spiritually. Thank heaven. Disharmony wore the hell out of me.

Find a new life in your sixties, go someplace different like a tropical isle, and really give yourself something to bitch about. If you were uprooted from all you were before, what would you do?

When Kirt died I thought I’d return to the states, but decided to make no changes for at least a year. Three and a half years later I still ask, “Who is this woman? What makes her happy?” In many ways, I’m the same, but after living life, as part of we, this only me stuff calls for a huge adjustment.

Being happy requires active participation like the world ain’t saving itself. This time of year I assess my goals, check in with myself. Don’t laugh; I found that my younger outlook fixed by childhood took so long to live beyond that what I want finally reflects a more centered me. I never thought of myself as artistic, and now, I have creative energy; who knew?  

Spanish Jazz Intro

Sunday in Old San Juan sounds like a title to a song about a woman alone, who on seeing a rainbow over the park where she’s heading knows it’s a signal for joy.

The comfort of together is lost to her; those she loved left this life to continue their sacred journey. Left alone to learn to honor her existence, she wanders steep walkways. What do I want to do? My knees hurt; how far do I want to walk? No pain, no gain, so she heads to the top of the hill where a Turkish restaurant serves quality food.

Doormen try to entice her into their restaurants.

“Genuine Puerto Rican food, you will love it,” he said with almost a leer on his face.

“Yo vivo aqui. I get that all the time. I’m looking for something different,” her eyebrows seemed to leap a couple of times before her mouth and eyes settled into a lascivious smile. She walked on aching knees; where the hell is that place?

Finally, the Turkish doorman leads her to a table for one in the corner. She gathers the spirits of her dearly departed. Isn’t this charming, she asks. She’s not alone when she invokes the spirits who love her. Imagining herself surrounded with love she looks across the room; there’s no man handsome or otherwise to smile at her, just a few young couples very much into themselves, but she sees the pity in young women’s eyes.

Pity, the place where she’s lived for three years, draws her into the dark energy. She feels diminished; lentil soup and yogurt revive her. She heads back to the Bahia Urbana for an evening of jazz, topped by Jorge Pardo from Spain.

A credible group of students opens; her head begins to bob with the beat. These kids are good musicians and a couple of the talented girl singers. She smiles at the stage, enjoying the display of promise.

The second group was individually wonderful musicians, but she didn’t connect with them when they played together. This for some reason made her sad. She thought about leaving, but she had never seen jazz musicians from Spain before.

If she didn’t know they were from Spain, would they stand out as different the local band? She thought about the roots of jazz in the states, while group number two rocked some fabulous individual riffs.  She happily remembered when Caribbean Jazz became part of her world.

Would Spanish Jazz imprint strongly or be a wisp? Her back ached, so before the last set, she stood to stretch. You know the look folks get when they’re trying to look, but don’t want to be seen looking? Some seemed friendly, some held pity, kind of an awe you’re alone face and some were simply; what the fuck level of surprise is she doing here, but she never felt malice.

The walk to sustenance led to back and knees screaming above the music, but she’d come too far to leave without being exposed to some Spaniards playing instruments.

Generally, flutes fail to hold her attention, so when the thin longhaired man began to play she was thinking that maybe this wasn’t going to be worth the wait. A couple hundred miles round trip drive, gas, tolls, and parking for just getting there meant she wanted the trip to be worth expenses. A little seasoning and you go all critical, she laughed. His playing seemed rather pleasant.

Jorge Pardo stood like a toreador waving his wand; that looks and sounds pretty good. With a quick right to left movement his flute left notes, she followed in admiration. “He’s so Spanish,” she chuckled, having seen a fair number of flute playing people over her lifetime.

The stage backlit by well designed, colorful commercials showcased the performers in silhouette. A second man, holding a guitar stepped into the light and both had the most amazingly erect posture. A Spanish guitar speaks about the culture, the vibrancy of the people; the young man playing fluently carried himself with the same manly elegance as Pardo, who next played sax.

The drummer who could play in anyone’s band supported and blended very well. A clever fellow with an enormous base pleased her when more of the same would have been too much.

Flamenco goes so well with jazz; sound, presentation excellent, so she wanted to dance, but nobody was dancing. She packed up and danced her way out of the park. Young women signaling her thumbs up gave her a helping hand down a slippery slope. They seemed happy to see her. She felt a lovely group synergy; the trek to the car didn’t seem quite so far.

Problems, self-pity she left at the door the night she learned about Spanish Jazz.

Hang Up

A friend you call in the middle of the afternoon just to shoot the breeze  between chores, that’s a bud missed. I miss the friend with fine comedic timing who still laughed at my one liner’s. We laughed until tears leaked. All that shot in the ass.

Just joking, trying to be funny; don’t be so serious. Can’t you take a joke? None of these lines will placate, ameliorate, or otherwise improve my attitude regarding words thrown at me with precision.

Nothing guaranteed, nothing taken for granted. Mourn to move on, so forgiving possible. I’ve learned to love and to let go. Always hurts, some times more.

One of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten, a lady named Teddy told me, “To have a friend you must be a friend. You know how to have a friend.”

I pray for grace to be a friend, who forgives at least to the extent of not hurting in revenge.

To let go is one of my life lessons. I hang on for dear life. J

Life Lessons

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. About three years ago, shortly after my husband died, we were introduced.

Widows know each others’ pain; it’s something we just have to live through or not. People who haven’t had this loss hide behind a wall of words telling you how you should feel or even better how your husband would want you to feel. Well intended people can make you crazy in your grief.

“You feel how you feel. You can’t push it. You can’t change it. You just have to accept it. It hurts.” She identified with the experience. 

An obviously wounded woman spoke the truth. We bonded in our grief. We gave each other moral support to make the best of the days we shared. Lost in Puerto Rico with two senior ladies could be the title of our early adventures. In the depths of my mourning, I learned to laugh again.

Have you ever met someone fun? I enjoyed her quixotic changes of topic. It taught me to be flexible. I can be rigid. And, oh, my, she bathed in the center of attention! I was the Martin to her Lewis; we laughed through many experiences.

First, I love myself; teacher set the example. No matter what the topic her sentence always began with I. After a while I found that annoying, but realized she struggles also, so accept a friend as she came. Later it crossed my mind that I should find what my husband found lovable in me. 

For three years this soul has been my closest friend, whom I love dearly. There is so much I admire about her. We had some great fun together. This time in my life was better for you being in it; gracias. I wish you all the best. It hurts to say, “Goodbye!”

The only thing that would grieve me more is to again be subjected to the hateful speech hurled at me on Thursday. That was the meanest I’ve ever seen you do. You wanted to hurt me; why?

Doesn’t matter because you did it; you hurt me so badly that we’re done. Is that what you wanted?

Give me Thanksgiving Dinner for one.