I find myself in my own silo of loneliness. Even in a house party, where I’m dj-ing the music. By 8 pm the place looks like a normal college party on a Saturday night. There are a few grownups sprinkled in with the daughters and their boyfriends. The roommate’s parents aren’t in attendance, because they don’t graduate for another six months. Nursing school accelerates their students.
A BS degree. Mine’s a BA. Appropriate.
In one odd moment, I went back to my daughter’s room to retrieve my sport coat. I knocked and entered. My daughter and my ex-wife’s son were in a loving hug, the ex-wife and her husband observing. I wasn’t sure what I’d encountered. Some “her present” words came out of my ex-wife’s mouth. It was obvious I was being shielded from their little ritual. I can only imagine the gift has something to do with money. That’s my ex-wife’s love language.
Oh, wait. It was the charging cable I was there for, not my sport coat. The boombox had silenced itself. I needed to get the music going again. I asked my daughter if she’d seen it. I let myself out and let them continue the ritual undisturbed. Then after another thirty minutes, after I lifted the party with some funk classics. “Brick House.” The women of my age began dancing almost as if they couldn’t not dance.
The young graduates announced they were going out clubbing. The adults were welcome to accompany. I think my ex-wife took a run at partying with the kids. I was invited to deliver her ex-husband to their hotel a short distance away, near the highway.
“Of course, it’s no problem.”
My air bnb was three blocks away. NP.
Because of the odd location of the budget hotel, our gps maps were confused and giving conflicting information. Mine on the dash display had us going one way. My ex-wife’s husband’s map on his iPhone was contradicting. What should have been a 5 minute drive became 15 minutes. 25 minutes later I was at my garage apartment unit.
Alone. Not feeling alone. Happy. Content.
That I wasn’t anyone else. That I was alone with my frustration and sadness. Me and god, in a dance.
I miss companionship. I miss touch and conversation. I miss expanding my joy by sharing it with another person. Fine. I understand, god. I’m in the desert. Like Jesus.
And today, I’m driving back through the desert of Big Spring to San Angelo to Austin. I’m looking forward to it. It appears from my emails this morning, that Uber delivered my ex-wife to her hotel at 4 am. Woot. I know her husband is flying home (flew, it’s 8:45) at seven, this morning.
And that’s where we are on the planet. My daughter and ex-wife sleeping off their revelries. I’m in a coffee shop near my daughter’s house typing cryptic messages to myself and praying (loosly) that she wakes up in the next hour, to allow me to pack her things in my car for my escape from Lubbock.
The cinamon roll was delicious and unwarmed. The coffee unsipped next to me. Staring out into the parking lot, aware that half the people here this morning are retired old people, having their coffee and internet time. Just like me. I’d fit, I am fitting right in My airpods bringing comfort and redirecting thoughts with the Beatles “Come Together.”
Over me.
Not.
*image is cc 2024 by john + dall-e
