It is the coil. What we’ve burned. What we have left. There’s no map or timeline to help us. This (this moment) is it. All the indication we’ll have is some slight dizziness going to bed then bang. If we’re lucky.
Lot of memorial services. A dear high school friend I lost in the divorce. My best friend’s dad at 96 made a real go of it. Then my confidant and best friend kicked it the night before a big vacation. Where to whom am I going to bitch about the sad state of affairs in dating? Who will receive my bad profiles? “I think she’s perfect for you!”
I’m not leaving this place in some skinny old man shuffle. I’ll get up for a hot tub and coffee. A game of casual tennis with a friend. Perhaps an artisanal sandwich. Then a nap. If it’s my time, that’s the time to go. If I have a lover, perhaps a passionate but quick interlude. I’m going out with a bang if I can.
At this point, if you make it to 60 I’m told, you’re likely going to make it to 80. That’s actuarial science. They study how long you’re going to live so they can bake the odds in their favor. Insurance is a racket. “We’ve made it this far,” I’m going to say to my high school friends and enemies at the memorial service today for my classmate. She was there at the reunion of me and the mutual friend who would become the mother of my children. It was fitting when she expelled me that our dear friend would take up her side. Become a wonderful aunt to my kids. Fill in some of the heartbreak with her own heartbreak and years of struggle against a body that failed to cooperate.
Some of us are beaten. Some of us beat others. I am hoping to walk my path, singing at the top of my lungs. If you read me, great. Listen? Sure, and thank you.
It’s okay, I’m complete just as I am.
I’m not saying I want to go today. It’s a fine day. A tennis workout at noon. Memorial service starts at 1:30. Maybe roll in for the last part of the church, or just hit the family gathering at Mom’s house in the old neighborhood. The neighborhood where at least three women, that I can still name, broke my heart. I was leaving for New England. I was too fast. I was mercurial. I was a quark.
I’m still a bit of a quark.
The Rorschach test I took in my late 20s showed no residue of the damage inflicted by my dad’s drinking or my mom’s dramatic fainting act. My therapist at the time was a teaching professor at the university. “I showed your results to my students. Had them study your charts. Nothing. They found nothing.”
I guess that’s good. Or did I suppress the bullshit so deeply that it no longer registered as part of my history? No, that’s not it. I must have accepted it. I learned to quit bitching about it. Write, sure, but quit talking about your pain all the damn time. No one wants to listen to a bunch of whining.
It’s still down there. As I land and expand that last burst of nostalgia my cranium is even more lively with burbling images, sounds, smells, lovers. I wonder, could I trace back all the lovers, ever, back to the first? The tragic Christmas Break adventure in behind the couch coupling, because the parents were home. It was my best friend’s neighbor. We both competed for her affections in 7th grade. She was in 8th and had enormous breasts which she liked to show us from time to time. Walking in the dry creek bed behind his house, no shirt on. Us, having a harder time navigating with our happy members.
He died a few years ago. His dad followed him nine months later. His purpose had been completed and his energy depleted. I was certain his dad and I were going to exchange years and years of stories about our “boy.” Poof.
It wasn’t unexpected to the family. He’d been in the hospital for a week. For me, and so many of us outsiders, it was like a double lightning strike. No one blamed him for checking out. We marveled at the old house, where it all happened, and the strength of the oldest of his two younger sisters. She seemed like she was holding up well.
It was a packed Hispanic festival, both times. The first was more jovial, as the dad was there to swap stories with. He seemed fine.
That’s it. You’ll seem fine. You’ll kiss your lover, or kid, or cat. “Adieu.” And bus strikes just as you step off the sidewalk.
I still can’t quite talk about my running buddy. He was twelve years older. More like a brother than my brother. A bit like my favorite sister. A hippie. We agreed on so much. Yet, he also showed signs of becoming a codgy old bastard. He was hard to live with, even for a weekend. There were arrangements to be made for his purebred Standard Poodle and his aggressively angry and defensive driving. His car, his house, his dog, his way. I was glad we were not married.
He’s the one I want to call right now. Fire up the old FaceTime(tm), “Hey dude! What’s the latest on the women of the Bosque?”
I guess I just call him now in my mind. His responses are dimmer. I can still see his smiling face, cup of coffee in his hand, vaping like mad, encouraging the poodle to exercise his free will. We’d lie about women. We’d tell the truth about love. We’d agree that we’d make a terrible couple. We loved each other.
Today, I will hang with my ex-wife, my daughter, and perhaps my son. He says he’s going. His track record is poor.
I see my ex-wife now for the bundle of anxiety and stoicism she’s loaded into both kids as their navigation system for life. I’m trying to unwind them. They are both packed tight.
I spend most early mornings in the front yard. Some communion with my mom. I look after the seedlings. Discover a toad that lives under the bougainvillea. The Pride of Barbados are spinning up their seed pods. And a hummingbird came to my water spray. Dancing. Weaving. So curious. A bit close to my face in a quick dart. As I moved around the yard for the next five minutes this little hummer was with me.
“Oh, hi Mom.”
I was certain she was going to dip into or through the stream of water. Perhaps just the glinting of the sun on the water like diamonds fascinated the bird as it did me. A moment of silence followed by the serenity prayer.
Everything is getting ready to go back to school. The plants and animals are gathering sores for the coming easy Winter. It no longer gets cold here in Texas. A light jacket occasionally in January. Global warming has spread our perfect season in Austin, from two weeks to four months. We still call it Winter, but it’s more of an honorary title.
I’m back inside. No sign of the hummer on my bright red feeder. They say the sweet water goes bad in a day or so. Time to change it out for my new friend. The toad went back to his moist spot, replenished for the heat of the day. I’m back in my comfy chair typing furiously before my act is complete.
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