(sunrise between here and there)

You should be celebrating. After the second date, the best of possible dates, eleven hours together wandering the cliffs of La Terranea, driving home alone, one conversation keeps repeating, you are obsessing, the road markers passing without notice, small cities and towns come and go without recognition; your brain is whirling; why didn’t you just say yes? What are you afraid of?

You replay the moments, parked near her apartment, your hand on her knee, there is a pause; she looks directly into your eyes: “I can only tell you that I am not looking for someone who is serial dater.”

“I am not certain I know what that means.” There is so much you need to learn about online dating.

“It just means that I completely understand if you are seeing other people on the App. That is what the App is built for, the constant scrolling, the likes, always looking for the next person, but I am not interested in multiple coffee dates with several men. I want to connect, and that will only be with one person.”

“Are you saying that you want commitment?”

“No, but I also am not interested in wasting my time. I need to know if you feel that you need to date other people, whether this is something more than just a fling, a way to occupy time while searching for someone else.”

Pulse increasing as you look away from her eyes, searching the windshield without purpose. You want exactly the same thing. And today, nothing like you have ever experienced. Never before has a date lasted an entire day, and it is only the second. But you hesitate, thinking of the two more coffee dates scheduled this week, and one next Saturday; you would have to cancel them all, apologize, find some excuse.

“I have to be honest,” you say as you take her hand, “my last relationship did not end well, well not bad, just unexpected, and I do not know if it wasn’t me, that I am not the problem.”

She is looking back; there is a kindness in her eyes, an understanding? She has beautiful eyes. Perfect.

“I just wonder if I may not be a little broken. I need to think about what you are saying.”

“We have had two dates and we had a great time; it doesn’t need be more than that.” There is kindness in her voice, “I am just not a person who dates multiple people. If that is what you need, I understand, and I will not judge you. We can continue to see other people, but I wanted you to know my expectations if we are going to see each other again.”

If we are going to see each other again? Slapped back into reality. You had assumed that there would be a third date; this was really one of the best days in months, maybe years. This cannot be the end already, not when you just met.

“Would you like to see me again?” There is a crack in your voice.

“Yes,” she says smiling; smiling with her eyes. “I would, but if you think someone else is better for you, then let me know. I will not be upset; just say so.”

“Let’s talk about this when we see each other again, if that is okay. Maybe Monday or Tuesday?”

Before you complete the forty-five-minute drive, before even parking your car, you have made up your mind. You are not going to let this person pass you by, to hold back, allow your fears to take over, to hesitate when every part of your being says this could be different. You have been happy with her; you tingle when she is around. No one has affected you like her. Stop overthinking, just give this a chance.

You text: I think I made a decision; can I see you Monday?

She responds: Yes. I have to finish an assignment, but we can meet afterwards. Can you please bring your golf clubs? Or do you prefer mini golfing?

The dates happen nearly every day, only limited by her work and classes –she is five years younger than you, but her decision to return to college for an advanced degree is an incredible task; you even start to enjoy the informal psych quizzes she gives over dinner. She laughs at your responses, and at everything; she is light, finding joy in the smallest and biggest of things. She is happy with her life, with morning sunshine and starlight. You find that you cannot stop smiling in her presence, and feel . . . happy, that strange and foreign sensation that left your life years before.

She asks if you would like to read to each other, another first, followed by a two-hour walk, a hike through the hills. She asks if you have ever taken dance lessons, you admit that you have, but only once, and years before; without a second thought you say “why not,” and sign up for ten classes. You are clumsy, lack strong rhythmic skills, but enjoy holding her; you smile at each other, your eyes never leave her face, even when you step on her toes and immediately and profusely apologize. “It is not necessary,” she giggles in response, “we are learning together. Please do not worry about it.” But you do, and you worry about her when you are not together, worry that something could happen when she drives to the University, when she walks alone at night, when she is alone in her apartment. You worry that this too will end, that these weeks of blushing and smiling will abruptly end. You worry that the relationship, that it could . . . die. The last thought stops you. What if everything you love is destined to … die.

Wait, did you just say “love”? You didn’t tell her that you felt such things, did you? No, of course not, some things are allowed to be thought, felt, but not expressed, not after three weeks. But you did allow the word, gave it life for one millisecond, a noun, a verb that dropped from your vocabulary eighteen months ago. That is something.

One night, after you have made dinner, hoping to impress with your limited cooking skills, after you meditated together and after experiencing your (first) sound bath, you sit together on her couch and notice that there are boxes in her guest room and that items are being packed. Your eyes travel from the boxes to her.

“I have been thinking about my lease, which ends next month, and I am thinking about what I want to do. I have been considering moving into a smaller unit,” she says with lightness and without care. “I really do not need to have all of this space.”

“You are moving in this complex? Next month?” you say, attempting to conceal your nervousness.

“I have decided to move,” she responds, “my daughter in Silicon Valley wants me to move into her house, but I am not certain I am ready to leave SCV.”

And there it is. She is considering moving –five, six hours away. Your fears have materialized. Suddenly, you think about your spare room, your empty house that she has yet to visit, always traveling to her, to prevent her from making the long drive. What if?

You allow the possibility to appear but say nothing. What if you do something unexpected, forget societal norms, obligatory waiting periods, ask her what if?

You try to act nonchalant (while inside meekly) ask, “what do you think you will do?”

“I do not know. I graduate next semester, but I could do my classes remotely. They also have a huge house and we are very close, so it would probably be a nice place to be.”

You remain silent, listening, while imploring with your eyes: do not leave.

“I also have been thinking that I want to stay here,” she moves into the space under your arm, and the tingling returns. “We just met and I am not sure I want to be so far away.”

If a person can blush from relief, toes to tips of ears, your body would explode. “I agree with your thinking,” you say as you lean in to touch lips, but you cannot let this go, the possible distance, the separation, maybe the end.

On the drive to your house, the commute that no longer requires MapQuest, you continue the conversation in your mind. Why not offer to have her move into your house? The house that has been suffocating you, that you secretly wanted to run away from, to leave for someone to pack, to dispose of everything; the house you wanted to burn down, to give you freedom from the memories, the pain; the house that is somehow even lonelier now that a light has appeared in an apartment forty-five minutes away. You could have someone next to you at night, someone to wake up beside in the morning, even if you didn’t even know your name last month: move in with me. You have room, in your house and heart.

Later, when you call to say goodnight, the conversation lingering for hours, you cannot let it go, you have to say something.

“Okay, this is going to sound mental, but I have been thinking.”

There is hesitation in your voice, not because you are wavering, second guessing the proposal, but because you aren’t certain that she would think you are being too fast, too aggressive, that it could be misinterpreted into love bombing, when it is partially practical, eliminating the commute, and there is an entirely empty room … stop it, it isn’t about the room or the commute, it is an offer that cannot go unasked, unsaid, you have to say what your heart is yelling: “do not leave.” She cannot move across the State without at least knowing you want to spend every day with her; you cannot let this go without taking a chance, having faith that somehow it will all work out, that it might be the best thing for . . . you.

She laughs, not malicious, but lightly, softly, her laughter that makes you smile even after you separate, when you think about the evening you just finished. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“I am.” Your affirmation strengthens your resolve. “Why not think about it? You could come over tomorrow and see the house, to see if you like it, to see if it is something that you would consider.”

There is quiet on the other end of the line, silence that feels protracted, time stopping, second hands drag. What if you have just ruined . . .

“OK,” she says. Your relief, your smile crosses the distance, the imaginary phone lines. “I will come over tomorrow and we can talk about it more. I cannot promise that I will, but thank you.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Zoom keeps you in a waiting room until admitted. Distracted by seeing yourself, your background, but shortly after the hour you are let in.

“It is good to see you. Thank you for meeting virtually.”

“Thank you,” you say, noticing her background, the bookshelf behind, her diplomas conspicuously absent; a different meeting place, wondering what the spines reveal. “I appreciate you meeting me when you are not at the office.

“How are you doing today? You look happier. A little tired, but something is different. How is your new relationship?”

“Good, well great, actually.” You pause, dramatic effect or preparation, “ I do not think I told you, but I finished painting the guest room, well, it is now our bedroom, and we start moving her things into the house this week.”

You are outwardly clam, matter of fact, but a tingle runs down your right shoulder and arm. There is no embarrassment or hesitation in your voice; you search her face for a hint of criticism, waiting for a rebuke.

This time the pause comes from her. If she is critical, she doesn’t show and maintains her clinical smirk.

“You did not tell me about this the last time we talked. Living together is a big step. What made you decide to cohabitate?”

“Maybe I should start where we left off last time.”

(continued in Part III)

(images by author)

Aloha, v. 1. To address with an expression of kind wishes; to welcome. 2. To salute at meeting or parting. 3. To show mercy; to pity; to sympathize with.1

^I.

“Aloha,” she says as I enter the office. She always greets me with this simple greeting, her quirk, along with the Lanai surfing scene, and palm tree print near the window. I have yet to decide if it is that she really enjoyed a Hawaiian vacation or that she thinks it clever. It is a simple word, easily exchanged, yet it has more than three different meanings, being an verb, adjective, and Today, for the first time I smile and respond in kind: “Aloha.”

I sit in the designated chair, our eyes meeting; freckles on her nose are highlighted with streaks of light from the blinds in the window. I adore freckles. Why have these gone unnoticed before?

This morning I am not looking at my fingers, the door, the floor, or the bare coffee table, eyes diverted, distracted, wondering when magazines stopped being piled on tables. There is a vase on her desk; the flowers are vibrant, salmon-pink, peonies, no, double roses. The bouquet is beautiful.

“It is good to see you again,” she says, sitting across from me; her voice calm and measured, practiced absence of lilt, inflection. “How are you feeling today?”

I pause, considering my response; “feeling” has been such a difficult question, something inarticulable, difficult to measure. Today I do not respond with the ambiguous, meaningless “fine.”

“You look more relaxed.”

I am, I think to myself; I feel relaxed, maybe for the first time in so very long.

“Thank you,” I respond, accepting her compliment. “I am doing much better, actually.” And I smile, not forced or hiding pain.

There is silence, as she waits for me to continue, but not annoying or grating, no crawl on my skin. I allow space to fill the room before I continue. “So much has happened. I do not know where to begin.”

“Just start where you feel comfortable.”

. . . .

So much has happened since I was here last, since I shared anything of substance. Yes, there was the emptying, the cleaning of the closet room, the selling of the hope chest, but those are the symptoms, not the catalyst. There has been a fundamental shift, a change in my existence, and it is time to explain, to share.

Just three months ago a message arrives on a dating app, or rather a response to my like. A short and polite “bongiorno”, an introduction.

Innocuous, one of several messages exchanged with women on the site, a process, a culling from the hundreds of faces, not a connection, but an invitation to connect. It is the game that the sites are built upon: these are people you shouldconsider liking; people meeting geographic and age parameters, possibly share your hobbies or political preferences; these are photos, profiles, possible matches, assembled just for you. For a small monthly fee you can like them, an electronic smile across a crowded room. She decides if your photos (candid, professional, shirtless or holding a fish) or your abbreviated bio intrigues, is enough to return with a digital nod. It is time consuming and frustrating; hundreds of potential connections, nearly all complete misses.

This seems different. Pretty, her smile filling each photograph, she asks “what was good in my life,” a question I am unprepared to answer. I think, step away from the scroll, the clicks; what is good in my life?

“Meeting new people and finding new experiences?” I knew the response is lame, not creative or interesting, so I quickly follow with a caveat: “honestly, I do not know, but I am open to finding out.”

She responds: “It is difficult, especially when living and responding with our thumbs on our lit screens.”

Our conversation starts.

We agree to meet for coffee, the obligatory first meeting for the 21^st century. In person, limited in scope or commitment, public, usually with an easy exit if deceptive or too creepy. The meeting place was in a city roughly twenty miles away, an acceptable distance for future visits, if the first meeting goes well.

I am on time, she a few minutes late. Arriving, her sunglasses were mirrors, eyes protected, hidden. Conversation general at first, weather, traffic, but sitting outside, away from other patrons, she asks my birthday and then “at what time?” Another question for which I was unprepared. “It matters,” she explains, “to fully understand your birth horoscope.”

My prior experience with horoscopes was general knowledge of my sign (Cancer) and reading my horoscope in a newspaper –yes that long ago. Once, a near-stranger read my birth horoscope, but I didn’t really listen, nothing retained. In this moment, face reflected in her lenses, I commit to her questions, no sarcasm or ridicule: “10:22 PM”.

“That is interesting,” she says with a smile.

Hours pass, coffee shop closes, employees changing out of brew-stained clothes in the parking lot, and we still talk. She recommends a walk at a nearby lake, which is more of a water feature, and without hesitation I agree.

Our trek is surprisingly beautiful. Geese and goslings in our paths; power and dog walkers brush by; our conversation continues through sunset; night settling. We stop, sit on a bench, knees nearly touching; she removes her sunglasses, eyes sparkling in the dusk. She smiles with her eyes. Looking, listening to her, really listening, a thought appears, just a flicker, a spark: this could be more than the coffee dates before, failed attempts, missed connections. Is this something? As soon as it appears it is brushed aside, silly to think of hope, of possibility.

Before leaving, I ask for her telephone number, which she provides. I text upon returning home, “I really enjoyed meeting you.” Her response was kind, sweet, something more than expected:

“I had such a lovely time with you today. Thank you again for the tea, the lake walk, & for your patience when i completely forgot the path back and accidentally turned our peaceful walk into an adventure. Haha!!!

I really enjoyed watching the sunset with you by the lake. The whole evening felt light, easy, and genuinely special. I am still smiling about it.”

My smile did not disappear and after four days of exchanging more texts, pictures, and short life-videos, a second date. This time she chooses an early meetup, to an undefined destination. Without hesitation, or preconceptions; agree.

Unlike any prior date, this day was spent at seaside resort, Terranea.

She directs our drive and upon arrival asks, “have you ever been here before?”

“No,” I respond, “never before.”

“Really?” she laughs, a giggle of excitement and joy. “You will love it.”

We do not check in, sneak onto the pool decks (there are four), or seek entry to the hotel or restaurants, instead she leads to paths overlooking sea cliffs, through a dormant butterfly garden, and down to the ocean. Climbing down into a cove, watching the ocean crash on the rocks, she looks into my eyes, “I have a question.”

“You can ask me anything,” I say.

“Would you like to meditate?”

Never, in any prior coffee or otherwise dates, never had a person asked if I meditated, or asked to meditate with me, even if I shared that I recently started TM.2 In every prior interaction meditation was treated as something unusual, eccentric, not something to discuss or share. In the moment, looking back into her face, the question is as natural as the setting.

“I would,” I reply.

She takes my hand, leading to a flat space on the rocks. “Close your eyes; focus on your breathing.”

And I do. My breathing, the sun’s warmth, I am present in the moment, no thoughts of seventeen months alone, three years of sickness, pain. The sounds of the sea, the touch of our hands, my heart quiets.

After five minutes she asks, “how do you feel?”

“Good. Really good,” I respond.

“I am glad.”

The remainder of the day and early evening blend, the hours dissolve, never asking the time or wondering when it will end. After a late lunch, positioned next to the bluff, we find our way into a closed off section of the resort, employees in black pants and starched white shirts busily decorating for a wedding, threading arbor flowers. Stunningly beautiful, I reach to touch, confirmation of reality.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” calls one of the harried workers.

“It is okay,” I call back, never breaking character, surveying the room, feeling the linen covered chairs, examining the centerpiece “we are just deciding if this venue has what we need.” The employee is skeptical, looking at my windblown hair, sweater and faded jeans. Before more can be said, her laughter exposes our ruse, grabbing my hand and quickly hurrying out of the party preparations.

Light starting to quiet, shadows lengthening, we decide it is time to return, eight hours seems two, time malleable. Returning to the car, holding hands with youthful clumsiness and sweat, back-brain thoughts returning. Is this the beginning of something, or another patch on the holes of an incomplete life. A millisecond of hope, possibly, this is something different.

Something.

“I am so glad you listed this for sale,” she mentions as we load the 1940’s Lane Chest into the back of her Chrysler minivan, seats flattened to receive the purchase. “Most people do not mention “Lane” in their listings as they have been recalled and aren’t supposed to be sold.”

“They what?” I am finishing pushing my end into the vehicle, caught off-guard by her sentence. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Really? Aren’t you a lawyer?” she says, closing the hatch, and reaching into her purse for the negotiated price. “They have a lock that engages when the lid closes. They have been banned, at least if you do not have the locking mechanism removed. Apparently, a number of small children climbed in and could not open them and, . . . .”

Her voice trails off, recognizing that this would be the second time we discussed death in fifteen minutes, and maybe this wasn’t proper sales-talk etiquette.

“I assumed you knew and just didn’t care. I was surprised the listing wasn’t flagged.”

“Never heard anything of the sort. And that is terrible about the children.”

I pause thinking if maybe I shouldn’t be selling this but continue:

“after we bought it in 1996, it was filled with junk, I mean things, that were important; we always thought that if, or when, we would have children the stuff would be useful. But for the past seven years it has been out here in the barn. To be clear, I am not taking responsibility should this nearly mint piece of furniture find its way into a house with children.”

“No, no. I will change the lock,” she laughs. “I have been looking for one for my house and I do not have children. My Southern grandmother always kept one in her bedroom and as a little girl I was loved the fabric and lace she kept inside. When I saw your listing I figured, why not.”

It is a good thing you didn’t play hide and seek in your grandmother’s house, I think (and almost say), but decide to let it go. “I am just glad it is going to a good home and that you will use it. It deserves to be loved, to give someone . . . you know, hope for the future.”

“Yeah, I will probably just keep my Snowbabies figurines in it. Thanks again,” closing her car door and leaving the drive.

. . . .

There is a space in the barn, silence, where fears and anxiety have resided for nearly twenty-one months.

The day after she left this plane, I find myself in the barn, escaping from the guests who assemble with the hopes of one last connection, a final plea for forgiveness; noise and people crowding and red-rimmed eyes, piercing what is left of my façade, worn after the final ten days at the hospital by her side. There. Alone. The chest. Resting quietly under two folded blankets and discarded pillows. Silent. She told me she wanted me to throw it out, possibly just tired of things, or hallucinating, hypoxic; she lost hope. I couldn’t bring myself to comply, the chest she purchased one month before our wedding, cedar-lined Lane that she had wanted since she was a girl, the only proper repository of wedding dresses and baby clothes. I want to kick, shake, throw it across the room for ever providing such lies, making false promises, but it weighs a shit-ton and instead is a place to rest, displaced anger subsiding. I do not hate the chest, but what now?

. . . .

“How long have you owned it?” the prospective buyer asks, when I show her the chest, point out the area where the laminate has chipped.

“Nearly thirty-years,” there is an unintended break in my voice. “It was my late wife’s. It held a wedding blanket she knit; Boyd bears she collected; and baby clothes her grandmother gave us when we were married.”

“I am sorry about your wife.” There are the eyes. The obligatory attempt at empathy from strangers. “How many kids did you have?”

“This can be fixed with a little glue, stain, and sanding,” positioning the piece that chipped off.” I am not accepting the invitation to explain that story.

“Are you certain that you want to sell it?” she asks. “It sounds like it was important. It meant something.”

“I thought so too,” I say, opening the trunk to show that the interior is immaculate and doesn’t have the mothball scent usually associated with these types of antiques. “But it isn’t serving a purpose in here. Time to find a new home.” My (false) smile is well-practiced; sometimes even I believe it.

“So,” she pauses and looks into her purse. “Do you think you would take ($20.00 below selling price)? I forgot to go to the bank.” Important, meaningful, but not worth the ridiculously low price I posted to prompt buyers.

. . . .

If I have learned anything, it is that everything means something; even the smallest items have memories, a reason to keep. Purses, shoes, art, each has a story. She liked to collect, to buy things. Just the other day a little used drawer revealed five identical pairs of sandals (designer name omitted), in a rainbow of colors: red, auburn, navy, black, taupe, and saddle. Five identical pairs; leather sandals that were completely unused, never worn. She is everywhere, in every corner, even behind doors –paintings that are only visible when closed; oh yeah, she bought those too. Eggshell curtains with fauna prints, maroon and gold paisley in the guestroom, the walls are draped with linens of her choosing. Even the furniture, yes, the chair I am sitting on to type, her choice as well.

But how long to hold onto these things, physical manifestations of memories, this is the conundrum. Lately, I felt like a museum curator, overseeing a collection that I didn’t assemble, even if I adopted and approved. Trapped, surrounded, and claustrophobic; fantasies of walking, of running away; doors left open and unattended for any stranger to wander in and take up residence, assume caretaking duties. Dreams of release move from sleep into daylight. Something has to change. She isn’t coming back. The weight cannot be carried (alone) any longer. There is only one way to move forward. Purge.

It starts with the closet room, gathering and folding of hundreds of dresses, skirts, shoes, and handbags. Closets filled with unused linens and blankets emptied. Art un-hung from walls, nails ripping from plaster, dust silhouettes remain. Pictures in silver frames placed into boxes. Curtains fall to floors, motes frolicking in sunlight. Black Hefty Extra-Strength bags filled, lining the hallway, taken to (for) donation. Trip after trip. Sixteen, no twenty receipts haphazardly piled on counter. Even the Lipton Peach Iced Tea bottle is discarded with trash.

Corners of the barn start to fill with the saved, those things unwilling to allow to break in Goodwill bins. And then the chest. The god damned wooden box that couldn’t be opened, sealed not by key or lock, fear of contents unknown. It is time.

. . . .

Buyer: Is it still Available?

Seller: Yes.

Buyer: How does it smell?

Seller: Smell? It is cedar lined.

Buyer: Mothballs? Old person smell?

Seller: lol. No.

Buyer: Just making sure.

Buyer: I would like to come and see it on Saturday if you are free.

Seller: Of course. Just let me know when.

Buyer: Are you firm on the price?

Seller: Once you see it we can discuss.

Breathe. It is just an object. It is ok to let go.

seventeen months pass, run. blink, more than a year gone. depression, desperation replaced with friendships, following more than three-hundred brilliant stars. each one a guide, distraction, mentor; each piece a part of who I have become, where I need to visit, who I want to be.

i have been quiet, words lost from page, but still here; watching, reading, absorbing commas, semicolons, the final periods. amazed. laughter. sorrow building, feeling expressed anger, pain, loneliness; appreciating clever and original voice(s). inspired.

there are stories to tell, things to say, a most unexpected of a conversation, a moment when grey-veil covered walls brightened, spider-fibers were brushed, cleared. this will be for another time.

The waves quietly roll across the Bahía de Banderas, in the Riviera Nayarit, Playa Flamingos. On the sand, at the feet of the brake, exclusive canopied beach loungers are arranged in four rows, with the front the most desired, highly coveted. Several days into the trip, no matter how early he arrives, the right corner location is always occupied by the same septuagenarian couple; spent, tawny, weather-beaten skin; his black-felt knee braces rolling when the man rises from his prone position, accepting the fourth pina colada before noon; the woman’s eyes do not leave her crossword as her drink is handed across. The sideways stare of the couple in the adjacent lounger is of amusement and a hint of frustration.

“Really,” he says to his companion, watching the older man roll onto his chest with a clockwork timing, evening out the unnatural tan. “I came down today at 6:30 am to put our towels on the chaises, but they were already here. I do not think they even eat breakfast, or if they do it is really early.”

She looks at him and he can sense she only partially believes his claims. If he wanted to reserve the loungers next to the pathway, no one on the right, he could have just gotten up earlier. She had told him to get up early to reserve the space, but he was clearly not listening.

“Besides, we are in the front row,” his confession in a whisper now. “And we basically have the same view. This is practically as good a spot as they have.”

“Probably,” she says with a smile betraying her thoughts. “It would just be nice not to have someone in the corner of my eye.”

He laughs, thinking that it is ridiculous that one lounging bed could really be different than another; it clearly means more to their neighbors, since they arrive with the sun and only slightly-stumble as they leave late in the afternoon. “Do they ever eat? Maybe we can switch positions once they leave for lunch or the afternoon meal, what do they call it, the lupper?”

“They bring food from their room,” she replies, lying back under the canopy, one hand shading her eyes. “And by four o’clock I am ready to go into the room and prepare for our dinner.”

Time has been measured by the movement of the sun in the sky, captured by sundials, fire clocks, or clepsydras, until around 1275 mechanical clocks first appeared in Europe and in 1364 Giovanni Dondi constructed the Astarium. But this is not Europe, as the bright pearl-smiling waiter tells the couple, “there is no measure of time on the Banderas Bay! No one even wears a watch,” he says, gesturing to the couples in repose in the adults-only resort.

The pair sits in silence, a Diet Pepsi on one side table, a margarita and soda water with extra lime nearest to her. There is no music, no radio or speaker, and the couples on either side appear to have fallen into early afternoon naps, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic surf. Her eyes close lazily, head turned away from the couple with the burnt umber hue; his eyes remain on the people nearing the magenta flags, the demarcation of safely enjoying the water, beyond which jellyfish and stingrays are known to inhabit. “How do they decide where it is safe to swim?” he thinks to himself, the heat of the sun gently roasting his thoughts and daydreams. “Don’t the sea creatures just swim past the flags? Can jellyfish know where they are supposed to stay, or are there underwater nets that I cannot see?” These are the thoughts of a person in the fifth day of a vacation, when the mind has finally detached from work and home, when the routines of domestic life have been replaced with the resort schedules, the buffet breakfasts, scheduled volleyball, taco and nacho bar lunches, waiters irregularly offering beverages, removing empty plastic glasses without asking permission or acknowledgement. Luxury resort staff, in starched linen shirts and café au lait taupe shorts, white socks and tennis shoes; the sand scorching in the afternoon sun’s rays. Thoughts of schedules, work, or emails are massaged out of the psyche, as surely as the tensions are unknotted by the beach massage tables —only $30.00 for an hour in one of the brightly colored adjacent tents. This is peace hinted at in the hotel web pages; behind the photographs of couples swimming, riding horses along the beach, soaring parachutes into the sky, the smiling faces, perfectly toned abs and biceps; there is an unwritten contract –you are not adonis and adonia, you can sleep and do nothing, no one will question, because you are on las vacaciones (vacation).

It would be ridicula (ridiculous) not to be enjoying oneself in the Riu Palace Pacifico. The hotel is newly remodeled, closed for a year while every finishing touch was put in place; glass walled showers and upgraded linens; full bars in each room, at (for) your disposal; seven cantinas situated throughout (one swim up, although you may have to fend off the crowds of early twentysomethings), and even a sports bar open 24 hours a day, because who wouldn’t want tequila and chicken fingers at 2 AM; and new restaurants, even a streak house serving lobster, for those who have simply cannot decide between surf or turf. Genuine smiles grace the faces of every employee, proud of the amenities and happy to be back at work after the construction closure, curating hourly activities (voluntary of course) and end each day with the choreographed concerts and shows, before starting once again for 8:00 AM yoga or Pilates. The goal, the mission, the mantra of everything from the perfectly trimmed grass and fronds, leaf-free fountains, kelp-raked beaches, and hourly swept sidewalks is pristine, peace, and tranquility (tranquilidad).

The top of the hour arrives and so too does the spreading of sun tan lotion from the adjoining chaises, the stark white in contrast to the saddle-colored skin. “Can you get my back,” the darkly-wrinkled lady says over her trifocals, while rolling onto her stomach, her pencil poised in the air as she contemplates five letters across. The hourly routine is only slightly disturbed by a man in a black baseball hat, with a cross-body MCM bag, dark glasses, and high-top Nikes. He generally spends his time conversing in Spanish with the hotel security about what sounds to be futbol (soccer) matches, a clearly friendly relationship, immune from the prohibitions against panhandling near the roped-off lounging guests.

“Cocaine,” he says congenially to a passing Caucasian and partner, his English clear and spoken not in a whisper, but conversational, unabashed. “Molly, ecstasy, marijuana? Xanax, Percocet? What are you looking for?” The couple continues past, turning slightly, before two women in brightly colored nurse-type scrubs approach, offering to lead them for “perfect” massages. He turns to resume his conversation with the employee in the resort emblazoned polo. A little later, a single boy/man, short clad, chest exposed, approaches and they step aside, under a near palm, the conversation now less crisp and distinct, pesos (dollars?) exchanging hands and a small brown paper bag passed before the seller returns to lean on the wooden stanchion, threaded through with heavy nautical rope. He returns to his conversation.

“Maybe we should see what he has?” smiling in a conspiratorial voice. “He seems well stocked.”

She laughs, turning to whisper: “do not joke. He is probably with the . . . .” Her lips mouth the word “cartel,” but no sound accompanies. “And besides, you are sober.” She sips her margarita, brushing off the extra salt.

“I know,” he says, eyes across the couple with the color of coconuts being offered to drink twenty meters away. “I am good with my soda.” Yes, he thinks vacantly, his gaze in the direction of the hawker and security, drinking soda and not iced tea was the smart choice, his stomach only finally relaxing after the initial bug, intestines only recently unclenched. The men notice the general direction of his eyes and nod, the universal recognition of inquiry, possibly he is signaling a desire to enliven his afternoon or evening. Startled, he quickly looks away to the ocean and the couples wading outwards.

The people progress slowly into the water, their circuitous progress less from the temperature of the water, twenty degrees warmer than the California water left behind, slowed by apparent desire to avoid the wetting of hair, the loss of curls and style; each person submerged only to their mid-section. Eyes suddenly follow a person being hoisted from the beach into the air by parachute, pulled by a distant motorboat, yet another distraction for the more daring hotel guests; the entire operation well practiced, lifting the strapped in passenger into the air, dragged aloft across the beach and back, before returning safely to the ground and halted by the same men who initiated the rise. Watching the scene, a smile forms and he considers reminiscing about the ill-fated woman this morning, the only participant to be dragged fifteen meters across the beach when a sudden wind gust pulled the parachute sideways out of the wranglers’ hands, but was largely unscathed. He decides against recounting the morning events, but smiles thinking about rare chaos.

“There is a butterfly on your head,” she says, interrupting silent thoughts. “Hold still.” And she takes out her phone to capture the pausing Lepidoptera. She doesn’t brush it away and he smiles, hair askew. He wonders how long his guest will perch before finding new places to visit.

Apart from the visiting moth, there are surprisingly few animals active in the afternoon heat. There are no seagulls, with only a few pelicans floating in the ocean hundreds of meters from the rose-hued shoulders of the college aged boys who located an (American) football and are alternating between throwing and tackling in a homoerotic ballet for the benefit of several girls in two-piece bathing suits. No flies or small sand-fleas bother the seated bathers, the morning sightings of packs of iguanas nowhere to be seen, possibly napping (siesta); even the much-warned crocodiles have failed to make a single appearance. The emptiness of nature facilitates the absence of thought. Forgotten is the Riu “White Party,” with painted-faced patrons and staff bussed to a sister-hotel to experience go-go dancers, a conga line, confetti showers, music and videos artistically selected by a local DJ, a weekly guest-only rave lasting into the early hours of the night, rotating from red to gold to white, depending upon the week.

The flat Diet Pepsi warms, while the drink-waiters clean and wash the plastic cups. The only movement are the lulling breaks of the surf. Tomorrow will be departure and even in the thick humidity there is reflection, sentimental sadness. The end of the first vacation, the two together, but also his first trip before cancer and before his wife’s passing. Five days of food and (for some) drink, desserts that wouldn’t be chosen, selected, or enjoyed in normal life, but must be tried while on the escape from daily life. Five days of just the two, when new acquaintances and cherubic couples did not interrupt. Five mornings and nights, passing without incident or argument, side by side, but not together; subtle separation, providing space in silent, completely darkened room, phones inverted so digital light will not prevent her sleep. She does not and cannot sleep with his arm touching, or his hand on the small of her back, so two share the bed, an invisible demarcation of location of rest. The physical connection he misses, converging in late nights with clothes folded, carefully placed atop luggage, sheets pulled back, lights fully extinguished for satisfying but prepared, planned penetration then separation. Lips and tongues on neck and nape, navel and mons pubis, panting and exclamations followed by light kisses on cheek, before turning away for slumber. Nakedness replaced with nightgown and shorts.

The purveyor of chemical (and organic) pleasure is no longer at his post, his departure unannounced, although his scheduled return is expected. The oompa-hued couple rise together without words, as though an internal alarm has been triggered, books, lotion, and bottled waters packed into insignia-labeled canvas bags, rough feet sliding into sandals. Waiving they say, “see you tomorrow,” knowing they will be the first to arrive.

“We are leaving tomorrow,” he responds, brushing the moth from his hair. “I do not think we will make it.”

“Until next time,” he responds with sparkling white grin.

“Until next time.”

(all photos courtesy of author)

“I think I have figured out what (one of my) issues. I am my chicken, in a box,” I say as though it is the most normal of statements.

“You what? I do not understand. Did you say you like Jack in the Box?”

“No,” I respond. “Literally. My chicken is in a box. It is where I keep her.”

“Like Popeyes? I thought you stopped eating meat?”

“No. I mean I still do not eat meat, except for fish, of course, and I am not prepared to debate the logic of being a pescatarian. But she is quite alive, at least for the time being.”

“You aren’t making sense. Why do you have one of your chickens in a box?”

“It is a long story,” I hesitate, but not heading my own advice, I continue. “About three weeks ago I noticed that one of my chickens, my last Mottled Ancona, Spotty, she was being abused by the last Rhode Island Red –she was never given a name. I could tell she was getting old, not quite her usual self, and for what appeared to be no apparent reason, while in the run, Red would peck at her head, causing Spotty to run and hide behind the bamboo.”

“Wait, ‘not quite her usual self? What is her usual self? And how on earth could you tell this from a chicken?”

“I admit, it was a supposition, because we only interact in the morning, letting them out and at night, when closing the coop. But something was off. She was choosing a lower perch at night and seemed less sure on her feet than usual. Maybe she was just getting old, as she is just turned nine. But one day Red was ruthless, whenever she would encounter Spotty, she would peck at her head. Yelling at Red and swatting her away, after a bit, Red was back at her. A super soaker from the kids was a brief deterrent, but no matter how many times she was sprayed, she would be back; Red seemed intent on pecking her to death.”

“That is awful. How do you know that was what Red was doing?”

“It happened before. Red’s sister harassed a Buff Orrington and one morning she was dead in the corner of the coop. Chickens can be mean.”

“But the box, how did she end up in a box?”

“Worried she wouldn’t make it through the day, I removed her from the run and kept her in box and built a separate enclosure, next to the run. She sleeps in a box at night and I let her out into the pen in the morning.”

“I am sorry, but what does this have to do with you? This seems more of a hard lesson of the barn yard, not the human psyche.”

“Cannot let go. Still fucked up by Liz.” My stare is to the floor. “I think I am doing better, then obsess about a chicken, or spiral when, well, you know.”

“The text.” Silence. “Her breakup text.”

Heart beating irregularly, breathing shallow, a knot forming, the end of a new relationship that seemed so promising. Didn’t want to think about this right now.

“It was my fault,” I explain. “It was because of who I am, how I acted.”

“Your fault? Why isn’t it anything other what she wrote: “you aren’t the right fit, that your expectations don’t line up,” or that she “doesn’t have the capacity to give you what you are looking for?””

“Thinking for the past three days, obsessing, dissecting what was said, how I acted, impossible for me to focus on anything else. I just keep wondering why? Why does my heart hurt so damn much, why am I such a mess? We were only dating for three months. Why am I lost?”

Therapy, doctors, without hesitation a diagnosis of trauma, obvious they say. “Step back and consider,” while prescriptions scribbled into charts, pills placed in orange bottles, “you were in an emotional war, battling, losing.” The test results, treatment, failures of medicine, body, and mind. Months before the end, watching, witnessing muscle and strength waste away. Stress; trying, hoping that the new cocktail, fourth or fifth combination of drugs would slow the growth of the cancer. Sleep impossible, disrupted, sporadic. There was only the two; becoming everything from nurse to maid, cook to confidant. Everything to nothing, without warning or opportunity to speak, truths left unsaid. Each moment imprinted, a stain not shed in weeks, months, years; a tumble of flight and fight, climbing over each other to surface, clawing and eye-gouging, nothing off-limit.

“The feelings you are experience are normal, understandable. When your anxiety rises, when nervousness appears, take a few moments, deliberate breaths,” they tell me. “Feelings are valid; you can find ways to cope.”

Cope, from the Latin, colaphus, a punch, or the Middle English coupen, to strike. if fists could connect with feelings, this would be a row. there is no fight left.

“It is more,” they continue. “Codependency was necessary because of the illness, caretaker, a habit harder to quit than nicotine, but now is your chance to change.” Tendencies invading relationships, old and new. (Temporary) flaws to acknowledge, accept inevitable stress cracks, practice kintsugi, a work in progress, while working, unlearning learned traits. “Tell them, be open.”

“So, blame my shortcomings on what she went through, when cancer never invaded me?”

“It isn’t a permanent flaw, just new you; recognize where you are; the people who love you will understand, they will.”

“Not the people who know, understand, new, people only just met, how can they know, how can they forgive?”

“They may not, but you will not know if you do not give them a chance. A closed door stops, open and unlocked is the only possibility for passage.” Suddenly everyone is a Taoist monk.

but they are right. alone, no one to take care, yearning for touch, presence, unable to find a new connection. when possibility exists, sweats, worries about leaving, losing the possibility causes stress, overcompensation and text breakup. the conundrum confounds.

“I am the god damned chicken in the box,” I say, raising my hands in a Gallic shrug. “Broken. Unable to be with others, only safe in my separate cage. She said I “love-bombed” her; I mean what the fuck is that anyways?”

“You didn’t. You liked her and wanted to spend time together, that is a relationship. Wanting to be together but not intruding, not crossing boundaries, that isn’t what that means. She wasn’t able to love you; there was not enough space in her life.”

“But I can’t keep trying,” I respond, answering the unasked question. “I think something is really fractured, wrong inside. I cannot describe it, but it feels like, like losing (her) all over again.”

“That is the grief. It hasn’t left you.”

Often, we fill silence with our words. Otherwise, we allow internal dialogue to repeat and replay.

“And Spotty, is she better; has she returned to her ‘usual self’?”

“No, she cannot really walk. She mostly sits, leaning against the side of the enclosure, but still eats and drinks water. I wonder if Red knew something that I didn’t, that it was her time.”

“She isn’t ready yet. It is a good thing she has you.”

You open the door to the room, the light diffusing through the closed curtains. It is nice, long, with a large queen bed, across from a large television; stepping down into a seating area, with a loveseat that opens into a guest bed and another television. “It would be difficult to watch two televisions so close,” you think, opening the curtains, letting in the sunlight onto the parquet floor. Opening the sliding door to the balcony, you immediately feel the wetness, the heat, the briny smell of the ocean. From the balcony, positioned in the center of the hors hoe shaped hotel, directly below is the manicured plaza, perfectly symmetrical, architectural conquering of the jungle, leading to the resort-only beach. A private beach, you think. Never have I thought of staying at a place with a private beach. Is this what happiness looks like? Clean swept sand, manicured grounds? It is pretty, but something is missing.

Lying on the bed, stretching, leaving behind the airplane, the taxicab ride of more than an hour, the bed is soft, good linens, down pillows. You could close your eyes and sleep, the lingering scent of the sea is relaxing, even at this distance. She is unpacking her suitcase, hanging bright colored slip dresses; your bag is zippered, closed by the door. Closing your eyes, you wonder if this the happiness that the driver asked about. Quiet, non-moving emptiness with waves in the distance, content in the moment.

“We should go down to the beach and take a picture at sunset,” she says, breaking the silence, taking her clothes into the bathroom to change.

The cue is not subtle and you follow her to the closed door, your eyes pausing at three inverted call-liquor bottles above the minifridge: vodka, tequila, and bourbon, all that is missing is gin and sweet and sour for a Long Island Iced Tea.

“Do you want to eat first, or afterwards,” you say to the closed door.

“Let’s play it by ear,” she emerges wearing a brightly colored sun dress and looking . . . beautiful; you haven’t changed and you can see it in her eyes that travel clothes are not appropriate.

“Give me a sec.” opening your bag and placing it onto the bed, searching for the bright cornflower shirt that was a birthday gift; almost grabbing khakis, but thinking better, she prefers when you are wearing jeans.

“They are going to make money off of you,” she says at the hotel room bar. “You may be the only sober person in this entire hotel, especially since no kids are allowed.”

Buttoning your shirt, laughing in agreement, but not the funny kind, hint of bitterness: “who stays at an all-inclusive resort and doesn’t drink, right?” You are already thinking of asking the cleaning staff to replace the Modelo with Diet Coke, but they only serve Pepsi products.

In the lobby, walking past the exclusive bar, next to a sign illustrating that only guests with chartreuse wristbands can access, you notice that you have the appropriate color for entry. The bottles are pretty, 12-year-old scotch glowing in the downlighting. Momentary afternoon dream: must US promises be kept in Mexico? Only one answer to mind: yes. You remain lost in thought, when she decides she would rather wait in the line for a lobby bar-cart that is staffed by special bartenders, making a “drink of the day;” a chocolate martini with cinnamon and shaved cocoa. There is no non-alcoholic version and you decide to wait for dinner before locating a soda. Taking a taste, she exclaims that it is “perfect,” almost offering you a sip, but changes her mind. Perfect, you think, remembering how good that first sip was, but how not-good the mornings were. “Pretty.”

You walk down the promenade towards the sand, her hand in yours, the temperature cooling to a comfortable 85; the colors of the sky are beautiful: oranges, tangerines, and ruby-red swirls over the ocean, above the nearby palm trees.

“We made it in time,” you say, your arm now around her waist as she finishes her drink. You take it from her hand and there is a gentle kiss. “I am glad we decided to do this, to come here.” At that exact moment, you mean it.

She laughs and takes out her camera to capture the moment, the changing light. Smiles are real, for the first time in months you are in the moment, not in head, not the hospital room, or lost in the empty house.

“Let’s get something to eat,” she says, moving away from the sand, up the stairs towards the communal dining room, the much-talked-about buffet, everything you could ever want and more, as the concierge bragged.

After walking the various stations, plates laden, finding a table, a back-waiter arrives, offering drinks: cocktails, beer, wine. “Diet, please,” you respond, his façade remaining polite, if there is judgment he hides it well.

“I will have a margarita,” she tells the young man. “Patron please, on the rocks with Tajin.”

“Absolutely Senorita,” he says with a wide grin. “There is a show put on by the staff tonight,” the waiter explains as he brings the drinks. “Great fun. Espectacular. Muy buena”

You compliment the food, much fresher than expected, and she finishes her drink. A second is brought without more than a nod. The selection, multiple choices of different cuisine within an Asian theme, the only problem you think, may be avoiding overeating.

“What was up with the cab driver, asking if you were ‘happy’?” she says leaning forward, unprovoked, and you wonder if she is reading your mind or your face, his comment circling thoughts since the drive.

“I have no idea,” you respond in a matching confidential tone. as though conversation could be overheard or eavesdropped. “I assume he just noticed that I was tired, but it was a little weird.”

“Very. I cannot believe that he talks to all of his passengers like that.”

You put your hand across the table, resting it on hers. “I am happy we are here. Really.” Are you providing affirmance for her, or for you, it is entirely unclear to speaker and audience. “Let’s finish here and go to the spectacular, very good show.” You do not want to continue this thread any longer.

The performance is an event; a cross between a talent show with choreographed dance routines, and an 80’s rock and roll band performance, both Mexican and American pop songs, even with a sing-along with the audience. Bartenders are shaking margaritas and cocktails in two bars in the back of the theater, and one just twenty feet from the entrance. You both soon make friends with a young couple seated next, also on their first trip together, wondering if they are even twenty years old. They remain physically attached, arms intertwined, her legs in his lap, touching every part of each other, their youthful beauty and excitement in full display. Watching them, a memory appears, unasked for, uninvited; a vacation from the past, a lifetime away. Realizing your face reflects your thoughts and noticing the distance between, you put an arm around, mimicking the affection across the table, when your vacation partner suddenly shouts over the music: “we should have drinks! Shots!”

“Yes! Yes!” the pretty young people join in and you volunteer to go to the bar; the clean faced young man attempts to disengages from his amor, passionately and drunkenly kissing her, promising to “be back in a second. No really, I will be right back. I promise. Right back.” He continues to assure, only leading to more kisses.

At the bar, as you wait for the drinks to be poured. Over the Conga drums solo the bartender smiles and asks: “How is your night? Are you having a great time?”

Really? What is with everyone’s concern about your well-being? You consider asking what it is about your face that invites inquiry and assurances; is there something specific on your forehead or is it just your face that keeps prompting unsolicited questions? Literally, what-the-fuck, ‘what do you care’, you think to ask as he moves with the music, cocktail shaker adding to the percussion. ‘It is none of your business, and I am getting tired of everyone asking,’ your internal monologue continues increasing in tone. You see him turn back to the glasses, pouring the chilled tequila into salt-rims, wedge of lime attached, his dancing more elaborate to the song. Turning he puts the drinks in front of you with a bigger smile and you realize that this was his banter; he is not asking a question.

The young man’s hand slaps you on your shoulder, a little too rough, and he leans in close, as only a happily drunken person will do: “you do not drink, like at all?” The scent of tequila on his breath makes you cough, strong; how many meaningful conversations did you subject to others, ignoring appropriate speaking distances in your alcohol-fueled excitement.

“Nope,” you say, stepping back just twelve inches. “Not at all.”

“It doesn’t bother you when we drink, or when you get the drinks?” He says as he moves closer again. “You don’t miss it?”

“No. Really,” you emphasize with return the pat to his shoulder, possibly a little firmer, smiling to match the grin on his face. “I drank enough before I quit to last a lifetime.” He finds this hilarious, much more than deserved, and taking a drink off the bar he suddenly and unexpectedly clinks the glass to toast your soda.

“You are funny!” he exclaims, his exuberance spilling half of the drink on you, on him, on the bar top, causing him to lose focus and grip on the glass, but you catch it before it falls to the floor. The bartender stands back at first and then the two men high five, with a “whoo hoo!”

After the show you separate from the new friends at the elevator in no less than five minutes, with earnest promises of meeting for breakfast and volleyball, YES, Volleyball! You are the only one of the four to know that the excitement of the night will not carry forth to the morning. Hugs are exchanged, despite only meeting three hours before, and you still do not know or cannot remember either of their names.

“They are so nice,” she proclaims to the empty room and stumbles as she tries to remove her dress, tripping and falling on the corner of the bed, face forward. Raising her head she blinks slowly, “whoa. I shouldn’t have dranken those shots of tequila after the show.” You attempt to help her to pull the dress over her shoulders, her position fighting progress. Once free, hair in multiple directions at once, pointing her finger, she says: “you enabled me, getting all of those drinks.” She tries to roll over, to sit and again emphasizing her pronouncement with extended finger, falls back into the bed in her matching black lace bra and panties.

You rise, open the door, the sounds of the surf crashing in the distance, the air cooling as the clouds roll, rain likely in the night. Lying next to her, softly rubbing her face, knowing you won’t sleep because of the caffeine consumed, you kiss her cheek; her eyelids and her breathing are heavy. “I am sorry,” you whisper with a smile, knowing the minor role played in these events, “next time I will cut you off earlier.” Your fingers gently tracing from her face, down her neck onto her clavicle and the cleavage of her breasts.

She places her hand over fingers, holding them in place. “Not tonight,” she moans. I don’t feel great,” as she rolls to her side, clutching one of the down pillows tight to her stomach. “Tequila. No bueno.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly, rising to get her a glass of bottled water and two Tylenol. “We have all week.”

In the back of the taxicab, carrying us to the resort, my legs cramp from the flight, the traffic, it lags and then stops, construction everywhere. Looking out the window, the sky is a turquoise unlike home; a blue that is not only seen but felt in the humid air. Different.

This is good, I think. A chance to get away, to reconnect, to really spend time together; if only I could convince my stomach that this is a good thing. Nerves from travel, from being away, the first time leaving my house, its comforts, even my animals.

“Is this construction normal,” I ask as we slow to a stop, watching people passing the vehicle on bicycle, foot, pushing carts.

“Oh yes,” he says without a trace of frustration. “It is always like this, especially since the roadway collapsed. They have been working on this area for more than a year.” He points in the direction of what appears to be an overpass being reconstructed, wood framing covering two-thirds of the structure. “Have you been to Puerta Villarta before?” he asks smiling at my companion.

She responds in Spanish, explaining (from what little I can understand) that she has been to the Riu hotels in Cancun and Cabo San Lucas, but not here and that this is my first trip. He becomes animated, responding in Spanish, the speed of the conversation increases, too fast for my broken skills; I think I hear the word for alligators, kitchen, and maybe water? I have no idea where the conversation travels, closing my eyes to the heat of the sun, their conversation turning into a rhythmic dance, one which I am not invited.

The traffic starts to move and he changes lanes, cutting off a pickup truck with passengers seated in chairs in the bed. No one uses their horns, the very tight and abrupt movement normal, not unexpected. He turns from the main road onto a side road, past an auto shop and storage facility, traveling parallel, faster than the main, but still congested, before this feeder turns abruptly to traverse the road and begins to travel along the coast; his speed more significant than I would have chosen for narrow and congestion, but he continues to talk, looking at her in the mirror, eyes seldom in front. I know she is pretty, but I would be much happier if his attention were to the other vehicles, bicycles and pedestrians. I close my eyes again, not wanting to see what could happen. Suddenly there is a noticeable change in his tone, reticent, not the engagement of before, the conversation ends abruptly as we enter onto a stretch of road in a heavily wooded area.

Silence is my cue to interject. “Did he say something about alligators?” I ask, not wanting to watch as he narrowly misses a trailer towed by a 1980 Datsun, and two scooters.

“Yeah,” she says, looking out her window. “He was explaining that because of the building of the new resort the alligators have lost their habitat and occasionally wander onto the beaches of the resort where we are staying. He said not to go down to the water at night, at least outside of the resort beaches.”

“I guess that is good to know. Alligators, stay away from beaches after dark. Did he say something about a Cocina?” I falter in my soft “c”.

“Yes. He told me the best place to find restaurants in town and where I should go for shopping. He also told me about his family and that he has a cousin in the town where my family lives.”

“Wow, that is amazing,” I say, putting my hand on her knee. “Does he know your family?”

“No,” she responds, shifting her weight, but not moving away. “When I asked him about the cartels, and whether it was safe, he ended our conversation,” she says this in a voice slightly-above a whisper. “Now we know not to mention it.”

“Cartels, off limits,” I say moving closer to her, to keep our words private, my face close to her ear and I lean into kiss her cheek.

“I have a headache from the plane and the dust,” she responds, making space in the seat. “I need Tylenol.” Her tone is tired, weary with the preparation for our trip, the parking off site, the airport, and arriving in this Country, the place where she was born. I understand and sit back in the seat, eyes back on the landscape.

“It is so beautiful, so green,” I say with a partially forced smile. I am smiling out of habit, my default to change the topic, to fill the emptiness. “I have never seen anything like this before.”

“Oh, this is not nearly as pretty as where you are staying,” the taxicab driver responds in English, eavesdropping into our conversation. “You will be amazed with the clean lawns; every one of the trees is perfectly trimmed.”

It is difficult to say whether I would appreciate the manicured over the wild, the tamed over the feral. I do secretly want to see an alligator on the beach, if only to shake things up.

We again stop behind several cars, approaching a gate leading into a decidedly different part of the city; the asphalt is new, undamaged; freshly painted streetlights appear, flanking the drive.

The taxicab driver looks at me in his mirror. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

From the conversations with my companion during our trip, I did not think he needed an invitation, but I respond: “of course.”

“Are you happy my friend?”

This was not the question I was expecting. Looking at my partner, eye brows raised, still half-smiling. “Of course, this is my first trip to Puerto Villarta. My first vacation in . . . forever.”

His eyes remain on me, not saying anything for several beats, but then I see the crinkles of a smile. “I ask because I am able to sense people, I see them. It is my gift.”

Again, I share an awkward side-glance with my companion.

“When I was young, I was a salesman in a very big company I was in a business where I had to judge people right away, decide whether they were interested, if they were ready to buy what I was selling. It is a skill I developed and I am seldom wrong.”

“That is a good skill to develop.” I am unsure why I interject.

“You look like someone who has had sadness in his life. Not now, but recently. You are happy?”

The question strikes deep and my chest tears open, exposed. I try to laugh, but it is forced. The question I have been hiding, never asking, never thinking, but here we are, in the back of a Mexican cab on the first day of our trip, five days away from the house, from everything for nearly a week; my first true vacation in more than two years. I can feel her eyes piercing my façade from my side, waiting for my response.

“Yes, of course,” and I take her hand, a gesture of reassurance. “Just a long trip. All the way from California.” I do not know if I am fooling anyone in the vehicle, but I continue. “This is my first time staying at an all-inclusive resort and I cannot wait to see what they have to offer.”

“Ah,” he says. After one last moment of a hard stare, he continues with a lighthearted softness to his tone. “You will have a great time. The hotel was just rebuilt . . . renovated after being closed for a year. It is very nice. The people who work there are all very friendly. And the sunsets are beautiful. It will be everything that you hope.”

I put my arm around her, pulling close, saying to myself as much as to the car, “I cannot wait.”

That was not what I expected from our first day.

PART I

Dinner, inviting/accepting invitation inside, seated together, wine poured for one, first time trying to impress, scallops in brown butter, far too much salt. Not just any meal, February 14^th with unnecessary Hallmark pressures. Laughter, leaning forward, hand on thigh, strap to red lingerie slightly visible under dress, possibilities raised. Plates removed, hand taken, guided away from table. She closes the door to the room, switch off, pushing onto bed; she is on top, thighs straddling. The first time with someone other than. After. Blood simmers, boils with anticipation, excitement, but stomach cramping with nerves. 26 years with one person and then she is gone, taken too soon. Months of loneliness, solitude, changing of the mattress, and now on this on this day of all days. She exercises control, guides, directs, lips touching gently in burning anticipation.

Heart beats loudly in my ears. Space between cheekbones and eyelids inflamed, lips gently touch her neck, inhaling the sweat, musk, and perfume. I want to bite, not in anger but not soft, to bite hard, savagely. Living flesh. Healthy, alive. Her face turned away, ipsilateral jugular beats in the darkness of the room. I am on top, everything focused on this moment, piloerections of lust spreading to her arm, feeling the tiny bumps.

Suddenly my breath shallow, tachypneic, something disconnecting in my brain, ignorant of desire in my body, depersonalizing. Mind hovers, questioning propriety, whether vows can be broken after death, or is this the after part. Headboard noise against wall, the same pecan-colored walnut, the same sounds, just like before, but not with her. Closing eyes, images of past forced out, reopening eyes to focus on the present.

Thin red strap pushed down her shoulder, slip falling, pulled down, lips moving from nape to the space between her breasts, kissing, worshiping each centimeter, fingers finding areola, gentle pressure, movements automatic, motion well-practiced. Raising slightly, eyes fall onto her chestnut skin, tracking chest heaves, rising to meet touch, fingers, pushing closer, harder. Lips and tongue trace other breast, mouth pressure increasing. Beautiful breasts, so perfect and soft; lovely.

Unwelcome images return into psyche. Metastasizes, open sores, changing of bandages; slightest pressure causing pain. Everything before thought erotic about breasts, every teenage dream, fantasy and night sweat of imagined touch replaced with clinical descriptions, charts, mammograms, mri, explanations of biologic function, structure, each cell, each fucking cancerous cell. A battle of contradictions, desires and outcomes. A pause, hesitation.

Her hands on either side of face, she pushes down her stomach. Movement brings back into the moment, kisses resume, imperceptibly linger, trail, move to navel then pelvic bones. Inhaling deeply, scent, tart and moist; a moment to tease. Kissing inner thigh, moving to popliteal, causing laughter in excited frustration, I smile. Deliberate obfuscating, avoiding erogenous zones, a brush, slight kiss, without direct contact, bucking her hips, fingers pressing, ending games. No more torturing, withholding no more, deliberate patterns of my tongue, once told to practice the alphabet, watching her face, body vibrating, convulsing in a vocal ecstasy. Fully engrossed in pleasure, forcefully pulling to mouth, to lips, whispers “now.” Bodies pressing together, and want, desire, need to fully penetrate, absorb into me. Face so close, eyes closed, unable to see the emerald lust tint.

Instead of celebrating, mind begins to compare, the same and not, movements familiar not identical. Kisses dissimilar, tongue too probing, too aggressive. Fear begins to swell, worries of incapable, unable to complete, doubts growing, distracting, but continuing rhythmic movements, frequency of guttural moans; she is nearing the pinnacle, nearly at the peak, but I am not close, body disconnected, feelings and sensations lost in cerebral hyperventilating. Involuntarily, words repeating, sanskrit mantras: “this was our bed, our room, and now someone else in her place, occupying space under my weight”, movements becoming more imperfect, disjointed.

“Yes. Yes.” her voice raises, increased intensity, joy, satisfaction, but trying and trying, still not joining. Time elapses, “we need to stop, it is starting to hurt.”

I volunteer to get water, leaving the bed in the darkened house, my nakedness more than my skin. Opening a cupboard, removing etched-star glass, a sound in shadows, muted laughter.

“You are pathetic.” Quiet but distinct. Turning to the side, trying to identify the foreign hissing voice.

“Did you really think you could be with her in your bed?” The tone dry, critical, disproving.

The source identified on the countertop, in the corner: the bottle of Lipton Peach Tea. Liz’s tea. The tea that is . . .was the favorite, up until close to the end. Five-hundred eleven days in the same place. An artificial monument, reminder of the past; a plastic memorial that no one else sees, no one questions, resting in solitude, fermenting.

. . . . . ……………………………………………………………….

“What are you saying?” leaning over the counter, closer to the container.

“You know,” the words clearer, affirmed by my attention. “You knew and yet you still decided to invite her here, to make dinner, to pour her wine. You knew you went into the bedroom, locked the dogs out; you knew it wouldn’t work.”

What in the literal fuck? Reaching for the bottle but stop. Peach iced tea cannot talk.

“You wouldn’t, you couldn’t finish the act,” surprising ire from an inanimate object.

That’s it, a line has been crossed.

“Oh no. Fuck you.” Pointing finger in emphasis. “You do not know what the hell you are talking about,” wanting to pick it up and into the recycling bin. “First of all, who are you to judge me? And how do you even know what we did or didn’t do?”

“I know you are still frustrated. I can smell it on you.”

“Smell? How can you smell anything? You aren’t real, I mean, this is all in my mind.” The comment about my performance replays, internal arguments: She had a great time, a really good time, right? No, right. That I didn’t orgasm, who the fuck cares, it was still fun --really fun. Why am I arguing?

“You can tell yourself whatever you need, but you knew you wouldn’t succeed and now she is wondering if it is her or you.”

That little fucker is reading my mind.

“It is you.”

“I do not know why my body wouldn’t get to that point. It isn’t a big deal. I am sure it was an aberration, a one-time thing.” The dish towel is strained, pulled tight, justifying my performance to flavored tea in plastic.

“Would you rather I stay celibate?” voice rising, eyes level to the counter. “What am I supposed to do, just sit on the counter and rot like you? Because I won’t, I can’t!”

There is no response this time.

“Is everything okay?” She calls into the dark.

“Yeah,” I respond, but my eyes remain on the container as I turn off the light.

Part II

“Thank you for coming over again,” removing takeout sushi containers from the table. “I have been thinking about you all week.”

She responds by taking my hand, leading me back to the bedroom. With a little work, the dogs are exiled and she is under the covers, bare shoulders exposed. With wry-smile she whispers, “turn off the light.”

Obliging, stripping most of my clothes, not wanting to fully expose excitement, sliding next, alongside, facing, playfully placing kisses on her shoulder —momentary thought, lights needn’t be off, possibly more fun if every part is visible, if expressions are not only felt but seen. Only in passing thought, a moment of distraction.

Lips meeting, kisses not hurried, not immediate, forceful, but different, still not quite in sync. Hands passing down the small of her back, feeling no cloth or silk, caressing skin, buttocks. Anticipation growing, leaning forward, one hand unhooking bra, black lace tossed to the foot, eagerly attempting to remove boxer briefs one handed, awkward, not graceful, falling on top. Pressure of kisses increase, trailing to lobe, nibble, neck, bite, breasts; breasts without open sores, pleasure not pain; just slight pause, such beautiful breasts, hardening nipple, a flash of image of cancer, but pushed deep, focus on the moment.

Bodies repositioning, shimmying under coverlet, head beneath, familiarity as now the second time, better able to sense pressure points, clitoris, steps, actions increasing movement, moisture building, flowing, whimpers followed by deep, deep exhale, appreciating attention and emphasis, fingers now join in. Minutes, seconds, and sudden orgasm, now demanding penetration, “with protection.” Clumsy foil tearing, doesn’t want to, now using teeth, happy lights are off. Deep, firm connection, hands lifting hips, feverish connection, the clock ticks and ticks, perfect tan legs wrapping around back.

Noses touching, eyes staring at closed lids, guttural utterances filling night. Corner of eye sees nightstand lit under phone florescence and apparition, memories of bottles, pills, set alongside journal tracking dosages, times. Body continuing action, mind wandering, her nightstand. Distraction refusing the enjoyment of the moment, the sensation, friction. No images of her, or of pain, but not in the moment, not in the half or hour. Sensing frustration, repositioning, laying with chest on mattress, positioning behind, the second-hand sweeps, the sound of time passing only further distracts. Fear growing, returning, not of propriety but of success. Sweat drips off brow, onto small of back, but once again not there.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she says, “you okay?”

I nod. “I will use the guest.”

. …………………………………………………………………………………………………..

In the second lavatory, leaning on the pedestal sink, eyes are focused in the mirror, wonder what is happening. Twice? Really? Behind, in the cabinet filled with guest towels, excess toiletries and tissue paper, eight gold labeled boxes. Eight boxes of Loreal Superior Preference, 6AM. Bought when hair returned, in between treatments. Boxes of hope for the future, a promise for what never was. Hair dye no one wants or will take, slumbering behind glass pane. A soft voice is appears:

“It is okay.”

Searching for the source, there, there, from the cabinet, eyes drawn to model, the bangs, the auburn hair; the face that she would look for to locate her color in the hair care aisle, never remembering the numerical designation.

“You too?” Voice betrays frustration.

“You like her and she is beautiful. You thought you were ready.” Sudden embarrassment, eyes find the floor. She continues.

“You waited an appropriate and respectable number of dates before inviting her to your home. You were trying to take your time.” Eyes drop to floorboards, her tone soft, the slightest hint of a French accent. Of course, Loreal.

“I needed this,” eyes rising to the shelve, begging for approval. “I need to feel alive, to connect. It is so quiet here.” Sitting on the closed lid, eyes find blue glass etched handle, unable to meet her gaze. “Is it wrong? Am I wrong for trying to find someone else, to be with someone else? What is wrong with me?”

“There is nothing wrong with want or need,” she says. “But we are still here. You haven’t let us go.”

Pause of moments, seconds, minutes. Why have I kept the boxes, what reason is there?

“You still wear your wedding rings around your neck. And you never talk about before.”

“I do not think she wants to know. It bothers her when I talk about the past.”

“You care about her feelings, that is reasonable. Is that why you have moved most of the pictures?”

Correct. I have rearranged the house a little, but not just pictures, more items placed into her dressing room, a shrine behind a closed door, seldom opened.

“Are you okay with the changes?”

“Yes,” too quick in response. “Just rearranging. She never asked and I don’t need pictures in frames.” (I still see her in everything.)

“Are you already wondering if she will be the one?”

“No. I mean, I do not know, I am not trying to replace, and while I may have wondered, thought about whether it could even work, it was just a passing thought. I mean I like her, really like her, but I shouldn’t be thinking about that, not after only two months.”

Faucet drips in the silence, unsaid thoughts linger, pushing in.

“What if I am not really ready. What then?”

No answer forthcoming.

“Is this going to work when I still miss her so very much?” I realize the double entendre, not intended, but not wrong.

“Time. You cannot change your heart the way you change the color of your hair.”

In wonder if the words are a variation of advertisement, slogan while washing hands, splashing water on face and turning out the light.

PART III

Ill Dog Amelie by Michael Sowa

Entering the kitchen from the second bath, she stands, left hand manipulating her temple. I hope that my conversation in the second bath was inner monologue, unable to eavesdrop.

“Do you have any Advil? I have a headache,” she asks, fully dressed and ready to be driven home.

“Let me get them for you,” one last glance in the direction of the cabinet of my two-dimensional confidant

“They are over here,” opening a pantry, removing the lined-wicker basket. “I think they are, at least.” Boxes of cold-medicine and other pain relievers, once neatly arranged, now jumbled together without rhyme, inspecting each, searching for pain medicine. She is next to me, shoulder touching, watching my search.

“Have you checked the dates of these?” she asks, picking up a sleeve of gelcaps. “These expired last year.”

“They did? I hadn’t noticed. I wasn’t the one who usually bought them. I do not really take medicine.”

“No really,” she continues, examining more bottles and boxes. “Every one of these are expired.”

No response, not telling her that we did not need cold medicine when we seldom left the house for nearly a year, afraid a weakened immune system; a cold or the flu could mean hospital visits, unable to even eat vegetables grown in dirt for fear of salmonella. Over the counter medicine, not prescribed by a doctor, are not part of a treatment cycle.

“Here,” finding a prescription of 800 mg. ibuprofen, prescribed before the codeine, before the morphine. “This will help,” taking one out of the bottle, de-emphasizing the prescription date or the patient to whom prescribed.

“You need to get rid of all of this,” she says, taking the pill from my hand, inspecting. “Why is it so big?”

“Prescription strength.”

“You need to clean this out. Having medicine that is expired won’t help you when you need them.”

The white-lidded orange bottle in hand, there is another voice, muted, muffled.

“She is right. Clean us all out, start fresh, empty the shelves.” My eyes search to find the source, then to ensure we are alone.

“This anthropomorphism needs to stop,” I whisper to myself.

“Maybe,” the container continues, undeterred. “That doesn’t change the fact that you never look into this basket and yet you keep us all.”

“Why am I keeping you?” I ask.

“Probably because you keep everything,” the voice continues. “Probably because you have a hard time letting go.”

This seems to be directed at a larger issue, something more than sleeves and bottles. Lately, I have been holding onto things that no longer serve their purpose, unnatural attachment to inanimate objects, hoping that some use will be found, some purpose.

“But you do not mind being thrown away, not taken, never having fulfilled your . . . destiny?”

“No. We understand. We had a purpose, you collected us with care, arranged in case of need, but you didn’t find one; you haven’t caught a cold or come down with the flu.”

“So, what, now I just throw you all away?”

“There is a time for everything.”

This makes me stop. Examining the bottle, the “use-by” date passed in 2023, before diagnosis and yet I save, filling the space where something new can be placed. Scanning each box, each bottle, it is true, not one did I purchase, have I stocked. Looking at the tea on the counter, back at the cabinet with the boxes, there are things I need to change, things I need let go of.

Without pause or further thought I carry the basket to the bin, opening the lid, and deposit the contents, setting the empty container on the counter. Fighting the urge to double check that none might have some use, I feel I am being watched. A gentle pat on my shoulder: “Good Job.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A fortnight passes, with daily communication, sometimes only by text, schedules prevent meeting until weekend night, when son is with father. Meeting in a restaurant, agreement arrived to spend the night, unspoken consent to third time together, a trilogy of experience. We arrive at my house as the moon rises over the nearest hills.

“One more time,” she whispers into my ear. I nod.

This time there is no rush, no haste; time is taken with the removal of each piece, turning back the linens, lights dimmed but not extinguished. March temperature of the room, slight chill, and we are quick to find warmth in our bodies, an intimate embrace. This time, lips and tongues are gentler, more in sync. This time, there is comfort, familiarity to the landscapes, topography of skin, nipples, hips, thighs, calves, and more delicious parts. Slowly exploring, manipulating in minuet, scherzo, oral exposition leaves fingers clutching, one big toe curled. This time, the development is more deliberate, knowing the precise pressure to apply, the rhythm and location; four (F) sharp motions, in descending octaves, a light and simple cadence, repeated four times, following staccato movements. There is music to our movements, a modulating sequence, leading to a rising chromatic exhale, a crescendo, vocal crescendo.^[1] This time, I know what I am doing, recapitulating, a sonata, until only panting escapes her lips.

On this evening, there are no hallucinations, no ghosts visiting, apparitions to distract. Tonight, I lead and there is no clumsiness with wrappers, gold foil tears at perforation, without hesitation. Tonight, we chase pleasure together, bodies remain connected, no separation of mind, enjoying touch, movement, thrusts, near perfect positioning of corpus spongiosum and clitoris, sensations crescendo and . . .peak. Tonight, when bodies come together the subject is brief, the exposition complete; episodic progressions of our movements, developments; we build upon the first two nights, without fear of reaching an arbitrary finish line or peak; together chasing the tonic, the fugue complete.

“Holy shit,” I pant. All that can be said, the only words that come to mind. Exhaling, “thank you.”

Mutual laughter, not of humor or joke, but of satisfaction, release. Seconds pass, ready for the weight of my body to alight, a quick but frustrated kiss, and I understand, I know, rolling to my side. In the dark of the room, there is a different tone, an absence, everything feels changed.

^[1] The description of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 15 comes from Charles Rosen’s 2002 discussion, Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, a Short Companion. Yale University Press.

“I know am needy,” I say, my eyes averting from her glasses, the pen. “Goddammit, I am such a needy little . . . .” my voice trailing off, respecting the room, the audience.

“Why do you feel this way,” she asks, letting the open-ended question hang in the air, waiting for my response, knowing that I will fill the void.

“I just want to be with her, all of the time. Not alone. I know I need to give her space, to live her life, not be so dependent, but I find myself thinking about her, wanting to call or text, even when I know she can’t or won’t respond.”

“It can be difficult,“ she assures with practiced earnestness, educated understanding in the tone of her voice. “Trying to connect with someone after what you went through can be difficult, especially since you have only started your relationship, the first one after your wife’s passing.”

“I know, I know,” stating the obvious. “It is just that Liz and I spent every day together, every night. It was just the two of us, especially in the last few years. I don’t know that it was right, but it worked for us.” I exhale and pause; she waits for me to continue. “I really do not know how to be alone, just me.”

“What have you been doing to fill your time, to occupy yourself since we last met? We talked about ways for you to find positive moments, to get out of the house.” This question hits deeper than I expect, what have I really been doing, do I do anything?

“I still work for most of the day, well, not full days, but most days. Oh, and I read, I live through remarkably good writers, online, but really good writers.”

“And what do you do to leave the house, to be with other people?”

“I started planting in the garden, tomatoes, and carrots. I guess I just try to get through each day, not to think too much about, you know. And I obsess, starting messages and stopping, erasing, doing everything I can not to appear to eager, to needy.”

“You used that word twice,” she says, putting down her pen. “What makes you feel that way?”

“I know we aren’t 21, and that she has a life, and I should have one too, even if I really do not, and I can’t expect her to drop everything just to be with me. She has her job and her life, and I am just a small part of it. But I secretly want her to want to be with me as much as I want to be with her. In my brain I know I shouldn’t be so dependent upon her; I am so damn needy.”

(picture from Pinterest —the actual plants did not grab my attention)

The parking lot is full; families, couples already loading cars with the promise of summer spoils. I can slide in between the crowds, deciding against a radio flyer, only those plants I can carry. There are almost too many to choose. Cherry, beefsteak, San Marzano or green. I find healthy 6” plants in front of a sign, proclaiming --watermelon, green and yellow striped skin, hearty plant, full growth in five to six weeks. Colors and yields do not entice. My focus on the leaves, the texture, and the smell. A person to my right seems curious as to my selection process.

One row over there are yellow pear, between heirloom and black cherry, memories of summers past flash, and weight sits on my chest. A favorite, the ones she always chose. Hesitating only for a moment, a pair chosen, with two purple-black siblings, the lattice-tray starting to fill.

“Celebrity or Roma, which are your favorite?” A very earnest young man in a tan apron with his name circled in green asks, holding a plant in each hand. “I haven’t given it much thought,” I reply, although this is a lie. I know that the romas are better for my sauce, the yield from my garden is never as bountiful as celebrity, but this isn’t the time for a debate. “I can give you my opinions,” the redfaced youth explains, following me in the aisle. “That is what we are here for!”

“Thanks,” I respond, “but I am just here to buy a few plants.” I step in between a couple with a very patient Australian cattle dog, heeling at their cart. Without looking back, I pick two celebrity and two Early Girls. This will do; anymore will be crowding, vines competing for space and light.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“How does it make you feel when she is unavailable?” my therapist asks, although this is an obvious question; has she been listening?

“It is hard.” I am not going to explain further. Quiet follows. I am not going to fill it.

“But what are you feeling when she does not answer your texts or your calls?”

“Lonely,” I guess I will play along. “I keep my phone nearby, waiting for her to text, to respond, knowing that I can’t bug her, to invade her life. And then to I try to act relaxed and unbothered when she sends a message before going to bed. But this is something I agreed to, I knew this was the deal. She told me that when she has her son, she won’t be calling, probably won’t be texting, it is a rule that I know. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.”

My eyes trace the outline of the Ikea Rodarv cushions on the couch, the auburn flowers, the leaves and the turquoise Dala horse.

“She talked with you about these rules before you first started your relationship?”

“Yes, I mean, not at first. When we first started dating we talked late into the night and while he was in school, or she might just stop by after dropping him off. It is just lately that our communication has been compressed to the days that he is with his father. I really get it. Her son is her world. She picks out the clothes he wears in the morning and she rubs his back before he falls asleep every night.”

She doesn’t respond.

“I understand my place, the time that she allows me to inhabit. It doesn’t make my emptiness any less, when I want to just say hello, or talk about how her day was, or just be with her.”

“The way you were with Liz?”

“Yes.”

An instructor is holding up a bag of mulch, a class on “tips for the tastiest,” with soil for purchase and ideal watering levels; twenty people sit on folding chairs and one person is writing down notes in a journal. I walk around the gathering and decide that it isn’t for me. Despite the apparent knowledge of the speaker, it isn’t a club I am looking o join.

“Two of the watermelon, two of the yellow pear, two of the black cherry, a couple of the Celebrity and two Early Girls. Looks like a great selection,” the cashier cheerily proclaims. “Anything else?” Why is everyone so interested in my plants, I think, trying to force a smile. A yellow bag of mulch is next to the window, possibly from another person’s purchase.

“Just this,” I explain, lifting the bag to the eyesight of the register.

“Great! And good luck with your planting! Happy Harvests!”

Happy Harvest? The excitement presented must be a façade, no one can really be that interested in fruits that are best served in a salad. Maybe if I cared more, or if I had someone to share in my meals it might be different, but I am just looking for something to do, a good kind of quiet. “I guess so,” is all I can respond.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“When you are with her, how does that feel? Are the two of you connecting?”

“Connecting?” That must be therapy-code for whether we are both sexually satisfied, the topic of our last meeting; I am still not certain why I shared that in our session. I quickly respond: “oh, yeah, that has gotten better. I think it was just that we were in, you know, the bedroom, and my brain was having a hard time separating, well, not focusing on . . . .” My voice trails. “But no, that has gotten better, mostly. She stayed over the other night. It was nice sleeping next to her, even if she is not a cuddler, not physically affectionate. She also needs complete darkness and silence, which is a change, but I can deal with that.”

“She stayed overnight? That is progress,” she says, her voice seems to perk. “She has traditionally gone to her home after your dates, so that is a big step. How was the next morning?”

The next morning. Hair in every direction and dry-tongue morning breath. “Good. I liked having her with me, for someone else to be in bed. I didn’t sleep too much, but it may have been the best rest I have had in a while.” I pause, not for dramatic effect, but inside my thoughts.

“In the morning, I wanted to make her breakfast in bed, but she wanted to go to a restaurant.”

“Did you tell her how much you like to cook and that you show love with your food?”

“I did. But she wanted to go out. It isn’t a big deal. I want her to be happy and to find something that she likes.”

“I see,” she notes her book. She does not say anything more on the topic, but I know what she is thinking.

The weeding of an unkept garden is unreasonable, something that is better done over time, not with plants waiting on the sideline. The grass and the weeds are entrenched, unwilling to vacate their hold. Perspiration drips into my eyes as I try to till the neglected earth, to tilth the bed.

Roots of past plants are removed, turning over the hard layer and incorporating the new mulch. Small potatoes rise to the surface, forgotten survivors of before. Blackberry canes have migrated, from the outer planting, nestling into the softer raised dirt, snowy flowers peaking from jade biennial stems. I should remove, relocate outside of the cedar planks, but instead leave in place; new plants can find their place alongside the present inhabitants.

Artichoke crowns returning, stems and bracts filling the corner. Asperges claim the opposing corner, lime-green in new growth. Like their Rubas neighbors, they do not require attention or prodding to return, they simply wait for the rain, the sun, then they appear. They do not need me. They simply are.

Digging homes for the seedlings, I only roughly plot positions, never putting enough thought into what the summer will bring, whether one plant will steal too much sunlight, or invade space allotted for another. Cage in place, beginning to plant the next, I stop, placing the trowel nose first, taking off my gloves. The quiet is broken by a neighbor’s dog’s deep bark; he senses my presence, my proximity to his space. There is no one to share the accomplishment of planting, to provide affirmation of the choices, the arrangement. I send a text with a photo: “garden planted, how did I do?”

Minutes pass, then response: “looks good. How are you going to keep the neighborhood cats out?”

“You have made progress,” therapy speak for “you need to keep coming back.”

“We have talked about the changes you have made in your space, the recommendations that she made and you adopted, new linens, furniture moved, repositioned. Have you tried talking about your hesitance to open up about your struggles?”

“No. Sheets are just things and moving the furniture opened up my room. There is no reason.”

“It is good that you like the changes. My question is more about your ability to voice your opinions, your feelings. Did you work on that as we discussed?”

“No, I didn’t. I have just kept it inside,” I say as I play with the tips of my fingers, rubbing my thumb on the tip of each finger, a nervous tick that has resurfaced, a distraction. “Something that I still need to work on, I guess.”

“It is something I want you to keep in mind and consider affirmatively trying to do. But the key is expressing your emotions and thoughts, which is something that you thought would help to strengthen your relationship and to help the two of you grow together.”

“I guess I failed at that.”

“It isn’t failure or success, it is a process. Communicating in a new relationship, especially after what you have gone through, will help the both of you. It may not be noticeable at first, but it is important that you find your voice, that you learn to express your emotions. It is about growth.”

“Sounds good,” I say, standing to end our session. Growth.

The peace lily by the door needs water, but it is not my place to say.

Ill Dog Amelie by Michael Sowa

Entering the kitchen from the second bath, she stands, left hand manipulating her temple. I hope that my conversation in the second bath was inner monologue, unable to eavesdrop.

“Do you have any Advil? I have a headache,” she asks, fully dressed and ready to be driven home.

“Let me get them for you,” one last glance in the direction of the cabinet of my two-dimensional confidant

“They are over here,” opening a pantry, removing the lined-wicker basket. “I think they are, at least.” Boxes of cold-medicine and other pain relievers, once neatly arranged, now jumbled together without rhyme, inspecting each, searching for pain medicine. She is next to me, shoulder touching, watching my search.

“Have you checked the dates of these?” she asks, picking up a sleeve of gelcaps. “These expired last year.”

“They did? I hadn’t noticed. I wasn’t the one who usually bought them. I do not really take medicine.”

“No really,” she continues, examining more bottles and boxes. “Every one of these are expired.”

No response, not telling her that we did not need cold medicine when we seldom left the house for nearly a year, afraid a weakened immune system; a cold or the flu could mean hospital visits, unable to even eat vegetables grown in dirt for fear of salmonella. Over the counter medicine, not prescribed by a doctor, are not part of a treatment cycle.

“Here,” finding a prescription of 800 mg. ibuprofen, prescribed before the codeine, before the morphine. “This will help,” taking one out of the bottle, de-emphasizing the prescription date or the patient to whom prescribed.

“You need to get rid of all of this,” she says, taking the pill from my hand, inspecting. “Why is it so big?”

“Prescription strength.”

“You need to clean this out. Having medicine that is expired won’t help you when you need them.”

The white-lidded orange bottle in hand, there is another voice, muted, muffled.

“She is right. Clean us all out, start fresh, empty the shelves.” My eyes search to find the source, then to ensure we are alone.

“This anthropomorphism needs to stop,” I whisper to myself.

“Maybe,” the container continues, undeterred. “That doesn’t change the fact that you never look into this basket and yet you keep us all.”

“Why am I keeping you?” I ask.

“Probably because you keep everything,” the voice continues. “Probably because you have a hard time letting go.”

This seems to be directed at a larger issue, something more than sleeves and bottles. Lately, I have been holding onto things that no longer serve their purpose, unnatural attachment to inanimate objects, hoping that some use will be found, some purpose.

“But you do not mind being thrown away, not taken, never having fulfilled your . . . destiny?”

“No. We understand. We had a purpose, you collected us with care, arranged in case of need, but you didn’t find one; you haven’t caught a cold or come down with the flu.”

“So, what, now I just throw you all away?”

“There is a time for everything.”

This makes me stop. Examining the bottle, the “use-by” date passed in 2023, before diagnosis and yet I save, filling the space where something new can be placed. Scanning each box, each bottle, it is true, not one did I purchase, have I stocked. Looking at the tea on the counter, back at the cabinet with the boxes, there are things I need to change, things I need let go of.

Without pause or further thought I carry the basket to the bin, opening the lid, and deposit the contents, setting the empty container on the counter. Fighting the urge to double check that none might have some use, I feel I am being watched. A gentle pat on my shoulder: “Good Job.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A fortnight passes, with daily communication, sometimes only by text, schedules prevent meeting until weekend night, when son is with father. Meeting in a restaurant, agreement arrived to spend the night, unspoken consent to third time together, a trilogy of experience. We arrive at my house as the moon rises over the nearest hills.

“One more time,” she whispers into my ear. I nod.

This time there is no rush, no haste; time is taken with the removal of each piece, turning back the linens, lights dimmed but not extinguished. March temperature of the room, slight chill, and we are quick to find warmth in our bodies, an intimate embrace. This time, lips and tongues are gentler, more in sync. This time, there is comfort, familiarity to the landscapes, topography of skin, nipples, hips, thighs, calves, and more delicious parts. Slowly exploring, manipulating in minuet, scherzo, oral exposition leaves fingers clutching, one big toe curled. This time, the development is more deliberate, knowing the precise pressure to apply, the rhythm and location; four (F) sharp motions, in descending octaves, a light and simple cadence, repeated four times, following staccato movements. There is music to our movements, a modulating sequence, leading to a rising chromatic exhale, a crescendo, vocal crescendo.^[1] This time, I know what I am doing, recapitulating, a sonata, until only panting escapes her lips.

On this evening, there are no hallucinations, no ghosts visiting, apparitions to distract. Tonight, I lead and there is no clumsiness with wrappers, gold foil tears at perforation, without hesitation. Tonight, we chase pleasure together, bodies remain connected, no separation of mind, enjoying touch, movement, thrusts, near perfect positioning of corpus spongiosum and clitoris, sensations crescendo and . . .peak. Tonight, when bodies come together the subject is brief, the exposition complete; episodic progressions of our movements, developments; we build upon the first two nights, without fear of reaching an arbitrary finish line or peak; together chasing the tonic, the fugue complete.

“Holy shit,” I pant. All that can be said, the only words that come to mind. Exhaling, “thank you.”

Mutual laughter, not of humor or joke, but of satisfaction, release. Seconds pass, ready for the weight of my body to alight, a quick but frustrated kiss, and I understand, I know, rolling to my side. In the dark of the room, there is a different tone, an absence, everything feels changed.

^[1] The description of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 15 comes from Charles Rosen’s 2002 discussion, Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, a Short Companion. Yale University Press.

She responds by taking my hand, leading me back to the bedroom. With a little work, the dogs are exiled and she is under the covers, bare shoulders exposed. With wry-smile she whispers, “turn off the light.”

Obliging, stripping most of my clothes, not wanting to fully expose excitement, sliding next, alongside, facing, playfully placing kisses on her shoulder —momentary thought, lights needn’t be off, possibly more fun if every part is visible, if expressions are not only felt but seen. Only in passing thought, a moment of distraction.

Lips meeting, kisses not hurried, not immediate, forceful, but different, still not quite in sync. Hands passing down the small of her back, feeling no cloth or silk, caressing skin, buttocks. Anticipation growing, leaning forward, one hand unhooking bra, black lace tossed to the foot, eagerly attempting to remove boxer briefs one handed, awkward, not graceful, falling on top. Pressure of kisses increase, trailing to lobe, nibble, neck, bite, breasts; breasts without open sores, pleasure not pain; just slight pause, such beautiful breasts, hardening nipple, a flash of image of cancer, but pushed deep, focus on the moment.

Bodies repositioning, shimmying under coverlet, head beneath, familiarity as now the second time, better able to sense pressure points, clitoris, steps, actions increasing movement, moisture building, flowing, whimpers followed by deep, deep exhale, appreciating attention and emphasis, fingers now join in. Minutes, seconds, and sudden orgasm, now demanding penetration, “with protection.” Clumsy foil tearing, doesn’t want to, now using teeth, happy lights are off. Deep, firm connection, hands lifting hips, feverish connection, the clock ticks and ticks, perfect tan legs wrapping around back.

Noses touching, eyes staring at closed lids, guttural utterances filling night. Corner of eye sees nightstand lit under phone florescence and apparition, memories of bottles, pills, set alongside journal tracking dosages, times. Body continuing action, mind wandering, her nightstand. Distraction refusing the enjoyment of the moment, the sensation, friction. No images of her, or of pain, but not in the moment, not in the half or hour. Sensing frustration, repositioning, laying with chest on mattress, positioning behind, the second-hand sweeps, the sound of time passing only further distracts. Fear growing, returning, not of propriety but of success. Sweat drips off brow, onto small of back, but once again not there.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she says, “you okay?”

I nod. “I will use the guest.”

In the second lavatory, leaning on the pedestal sink, eyes are focused in the mirror, wonder what is happening. Twice? Really? Behind, in the cabinet filled with guest towels, excess toiletries and tissue paper, eight gold labeled boxes. Eight boxes of Loreal Superior Preference, 6AM. Bought when hair returned, in between treatments. Boxes of hope for the future, a promise for what never was. Hair dye no one wants or will take, slumbering behind glass pane. A soft voice is appears:

“It is okay.”

Searching for the source, there, there, from the cabinet, eyes drawn to model, the bangs, the auburn hair; the face that she would look for to locate her color in the hair care aisle, never remembering the numerical designation.

“You too?” Voice betrays frustration.

“You like her and she is beautiful. You thought you were ready.” Sudden embarrassment, eyes find the floor. She continues.

“You waited an appropriate and respectable number of dates before inviting her to your home. You were trying to take your time.” Eyes drop to floorboards, her tone soft, the slightest hint of a French accent. Of course, Loreal.

“I needed this,” eyes rising to the shelve, begging for approval. “I need to feel alive, to connect. It is so quiet here.” Sitting on the closed lid, eyes find blue glass etched handle, unable to meet her gaze. “Is it wrong? Am I wrong for trying to find someone else, to be with someone else? What is wrong with me?”

“There is nothing wrong with want or need,” she says. “But we are still here. You haven’t let us go.”

Pause of moments, seconds, minutes. Why have I kept the boxes, what reason is there?

“You still wear your wedding rings around your neck. And you never talk about before.”

“I do not think she wants to know. It bothers her when I talk about the past.”

“You care about her feelings, that is reasonable. Is that why you have moved most of the pictures?”

Correct. I have rearranged the house a little, but not just pictures, more items placed into her dressing room, a shrine behind a closed door, seldom opened.

“Are you okay with the changes?”

“Yes,” too quick in response. “Just rearranging. She never asked and I don’t need pictures in frames.” (I still see her in everything.)

“Are you already wondering if she will be the one?”

“No. I mean, I do not know, I am not trying to replace, and while I may have wondered, thought about whether it could even work, it was just a passing thought. I mean I like her, really like her, but I shouldn’t be thinking about that, not after only two months.”

Faucet drips in the silence, unsaid thoughts linger, pushing in.

“What if I am not really ready. What then?”

No answer forthcoming.

“Is this going to work when I still miss her so very much?” I realize the double entendre, not intended, but not wrong.

“Time. You cannot change your heart the way you change the color of your hair.”

In wonder if the words are a variation of advertisement, slogan while washing hands, splashing water on face and turning out the light.

Dinner, inviting/accepting invitation inside, seated together, wine poured for one, first time trying to impress, scallops in brown butter, far too much salt. Not just any meal, February 14^th with unnecessary Hallmark pressures. Laughter, leaning forward, hand on thigh, strap to red lingerie slightly visible under dress, possibilities raised. Plates removed, hand taken, guided away from table. She closes the door to the room, switch off, pushing onto bed; she is on top, thighs straddling. The first time with someone other than. After. Blood simmers, boils with anticipation, excitement, but stomach cramping with nerves. 26 years with one person and then she is gone, taken too soon. Months of loneliness, solitude, changing of the mattress, and now on this on this day of all days. She exercises control, guides, directs, lips touching gently in burning anticipation.

Heart beats loudly in my ears. Space between cheekbones and eyelids inflamed, lips gently touch her neck, inhaling the sweat, musk, and perfume. I want to bite, not in anger but not soft, to bite hard, savagely. Living flesh. Healthy, alive. Her face turned away, ipsilateral jugular beats in the darkness of the room. I am on top, everything focused on this moment, piloerections of lust spreading to her arm, feeling the tiny bumps.

Suddenly my breath shallow, tachypneic, something disconnecting in my brain, ignorant of desire in my body, depersonalizing. Mind hovers, questioning propriety, whether vows can be broken after death, or is this the after part. Headboard noise against wall, the same pecan-colored walnut, the same sounds, just like before, but not with her. Closing eyes, images of past forced out, reopening eyes to focus on the present.

Thin red strap pushed down her shoulder, slip falling, pulled down, lips moving from nape to the space between her breasts, kissing, worshiping each centimeter, fingers finding areola, gentle pressure, movements automatic, motion well-practiced. Raising slightly, eyes fall onto her chestnut skin, tracking chest heaves, rising to meet touch, fingers, pushing closer, harder. Lips and tongue trace other breast, mouth pressure increasing. Beautiful breasts, so perfect and soft; lovely.

Unwelcome images return into psyche. Metastasizes, open sores, changing of bandages; slightest pressure causing pain. Everything before thought erotic about breasts, every teenage dream, fantasy and night sweat of imagined touch replaced with clinical descriptions, charts, mammograms, mri, explanations of biologic function, structure, each cell, each fucking cancerous cell. A battle of contradictions, desires and outcomes. A pause, hesitation.

Her hands on either side of face, she pushes down her stomach. Movement brings back into the moment, kisses resume, imperceptibly linger, trail, move to navel then pelvic bones. Inhaling deeply, scent, tart and moist; a moment to tease. Kissing inner thigh, moving to popliteal, causing laughter in excited frustration, I smile. Deliberate obfuscating, avoiding erogenous zones, a brush, slight kiss, without direct contact, bucking her hips, fingers pressing, ending games. No more torturing, withholding no more, deliberate patterns of my tongue, once told to practice the alphabet, watching her face, body vibrating, convulsing in a vocal ecstasy. Fully engrossed in pleasure, forcefully pulling to mouth, to lips, whispers “now.” Bodies pressing together, and want, desire, need to fully penetrate, absorb into me. Face so close, eyes closed, unable to see the emerald lust tint.

Instead of celebrating, mind begins to compare, the same and not, movements familiar not identical. Kisses dissimilar, tongue too probing, too aggressive. Fear begins to swell, worries of incapable, unable to complete, doubts growing, distracting, but continuing rhythmic movements, frequency of guttural moans; she is nearing the pinnacle, nearly at the peak, but I am not close, body disconnected, feelings and sensations lost in cerebral hyperventilating. Involuntarily, words repeating, sanskrit mantras: “this was our bed, our room, and now someone else in her place, occupying space under my weight”, movements becoming more imperfect, disjointed.

“Yes. Yes.” her voice raises, increased intensity, joy, satisfaction, but trying and trying, still not joining. Time elapses, “we need to stop, it is starting to hurt.”

I volunteer to get water, leaving the bed in the darkened house, my nakedness more than my skin. Opening a cupboard, removing etched-star glass, a sound in shadows, muted laughter.

“You are pathetic.” Quiet but distinct. Turning to the side, trying to identify the foreign hissing voice.

“Did you really think you could be with her in your bed?” The tone dry, critical, disproving.

The source identified on the countertop, in the corner: the bottle of Lipton Peach Tea. Liz’s tea. The tea that is . . .was the favorite, up until close to the end. Five-hundred eleven days in the same place. An artificial monument, reminder of the past; a plastic memorial that no one else sees, no one questions, resting in solitude, fermenting.

“What are you saying?” leaning over the counter, closer to the container.

“You know,” the words clearer, affirmed by my attention. “You knew and yet you still decided to invite her here, to make dinner, to pour her wine. You knew you went into the bedroom, locked the dogs out; you knew it wouldn’t work.”

What in the literal fuck? Reaching for the bottle but stop. Peach iced tea cannot talk.

“You wouldn’t, you couldn’t finish the act,” surprising ire from an inanimate object.

That’s it, a line has been crossed.

“Oh no. Fuck you.” Pointing finger in emphasis. “You do not know what the hell you are talking about,” wanting to pick it up and into the recycling bin. “First of all, who are you to judge me? And how do you even know what we did or didn’t do?”

“I know you are still frustrated. I can smell it on you.”

“Smell? How can you smell anything? You aren’t real, I mean, this is all in my mind.” The comment about my performance replays, internal arguments: She had a great time, a really good time, right? No, right. That I didn’t orgasm, who the fuck cares, it was still fun --really fun. Why am I arguing?

“You can tell yourself whatever you need, but you knew you wouldn’t succeed and now she is wondering if it is her or you.”

That little fucker is reading my mind.

“It is you.”

“I do not know why my body wouldn’t get to that point. It isn’t a big deal. I am sure it was am aberration, a one-time thing.” The dish towel is strained, pulled tight, justifying my performance to flavored tea in plastic.

“Would you rather I stay celibate?” voice rising, eyes level to the counter. “What am I supposed to do, just sit on the counter and rot like you? Because I won’t, I can’t!”

There is no response this time.

“Is everything okay?” She calls into the dark.

“Yeah,” I respond, but my eyes remain on the container as I turn off the light.

I want her to stay over. I want to feel life, not to wake up alone, to be alone, but it hadn’t crossed my mind: I still have our bed. Our bed, marked with the stains of the past year under the Liberty sheets. Stains that I have tried to spray and wipe, blot and cover, but they remain. The same bed that is slumping on my side, indented by keeping to the smallest part, giving you as much room as you need, present but as small as possible, not intruding on the restlessness, the pain-thrashing early mornings. The same bed that you, we, spent a year of chemotherapy mornings and nights, adjusting the height of the head during the day, lowering for sleep, when it would be found. The same bed where you ate Noah’s bagels each morning, trying to keep up your weight, until you stopped. Where we talked about how unfair life is, that you could beat cancer, where I repeatedly said: “you’ve got this,” as much for myself as for you. The same bed where you stopped talking, leaving before your body. The same bed where I told you: “I love you. I understand if you can’t keep going, even if I want you to stay.” The same fucking bed.

“I understand,” I reply. And I understand. I do not want to understand, because I do not want to change, to let go of anything. But I understand.

“I will look into getting a new one.” My response is intentionally ambiguous, room to change my mind, maybe to think of arguments to convince her that the bed is just a thing.

When I disconnect the call, my heartbeats rapidly, anxiety building. I put my face to the fabric, try to smell you, but it doesn’t, there is nothing. I put my hands on your side, try to feel your presence, but you left months before. I argue with myself. This is the place we laughed, watched immeasurable hours of television, had sex, even made love. The place where little Isaiah and Bella slept and giggled in your arms. This is also a place of pain, of sickness, the discoloration a marker of tears, of anguish; the terracotta-colored spots are not you; they are the cancer.

This was the fourth bed. The first was the futon in our trailer, a bed we would open each night, then turn into a couch each day. In our twenties and just dating, the futon was a surprisingly extravagant purchase costing $320.00. The second was given to us when we traveled to Georgia, after our marriage. It was a California king mattress that had been in storage, once being the marriage bed of your twice-divorced parents. Not thinking about any possible karma attached, we celebrated the massive size --seventy-two inches wide, eight-four inches long, and hauled it to Georgia and then to Nevada. That bed made it through three houses before we remodeled our bedroom and purchased new. Do you remember how fancy we felt purchasing a Tempur-Pedic? Fancy but not perfect. It stained and was too soft, felt too warm. This bed was one that you researched, carefully reading the reviews, comparing costs and sales, the one that you decided we needed.

Twenty days later, the five-foot tall box, along with a smaller box, are left at my curb. I wait for confirmation of the delivery before I hesitate, gathering myself, and then drag our mattress out to the curb. There will be no neighbors taking this mattress to reuse, to repurpose; Nolah has agreed to disposal as a part of the purchase.

“Do you want help bringing the boxes inside?” the delivery driver asks after I sign for receipt.

“No. I’ve got it.” I do not want you in my house, to judge me or to ask any questions. “Thanks.”

I pause as drag the box into the hall, panting and sweating with the exertion. The empty frame reveals more, the void exposes a container on wheels under your side, things that you kept nearby: lotions and lip balm, hair ties, brushes, and products for frizz control or growth, buried under the gauze and sterile wipes, the journal you kept with your medicine intake, before they were too many, before your entries became sporadic and then stopped.

I find a container from your dressing room and put your things inside, one by one, careful not to overturn or spill; I am not going to decide now what should be kept or discarded, but touching, feeling the things that you wanted and needed. I pause with the walls feeling closer. I leave the room, sliding by the mattress boxes and into the sunlight. Claustrophobia is a startling new sensation; I just need a few minutes and I return, rotating the mattress box on its side, and slowly drag the compressed wrapped form onto the bed frame, pushing it for the final step. “Fuck, this is more work than I remember,” I say out loud to no one; even the dogs having lost interest in my actions.

I cut the binding wrap, the mattress expanding and filling the base and return to the bedside container. I look at your nightstand, two mid-century walnut drawers I was forbidden from searching through so as not to “mess them up.” Two drawers that have remained closed for months. I look at the container and then to the drawers, and without pause I open the top drawer and start removing more of your things, the collection of things that you assembled, curated, that were yours. The bottom drawer, that I have never opened, is filled with paper, notes, letters, cards, most in my indecipherable handwriting for birthdays, Valentines, or handmade cards from children ages five to ten. You never told me. I had no idea. I hold each, searching my memory for the month, the year, then place them back into the drawer.

The mattress raises to its full height and silently I put on new sheets, the new pillows. It is colder, much firmer to the touch than I remember. It feels foreign and I barely sleep the first night, but when do I really sleep anymore. It will be fine.

I do not call for a few days to explain the newness, what has been and what cannot be replaced. But I do call. I want validation that what I have done was right.

“Maybe this weekend,” she says before we end our call.

(a bed is more than just a place to sleep)

“I understand,” she says, her voice filled with empathy, even if there is no way for her to truly understand.

“I left the television in the bedroom on, 24-hour death and mayhem –Dateline 24/7, the way she liked. But yesterday I finally turned it off.” The flickering light and sounds were a comfort at first, but even with the sound on low, it seemed unnecessary to keep it powered.

“What are you doing to keep you busy?” she asks, knowing that occupying, filling my time has become my daily goal, all that I accomplish.

“I read and read. Books, but mostly Substack. One writer I really like wrote a piece about her encounters on Tinder. Just about her meetings, usually descriptive sexual encounters, and how she is recapturing herself after her husband died of cancer.”

“I read her writing, after you sent me the link,” she replies. “It seems to work for her. Is that what you want?”

Is that what I want? Physical satisfaction, just to get off? F*cking without emotional entanglement. I haven’t touched anyone sexually in more than six months. Would I be able to just touch someone, feel healthy skin, a woman not in pain?

“Have you gone on the dating Apps?” she continues, sensing my retreat into my mind. “You might like the distraction. You do not have to meet any of them, you can just write back and forth. You will not believe how much time you can spend swiping. Even if you feel like you are not ready, it may be something to do.”

Something to do. Something to occupy my time. Something. Someone? No. Just a way to spend time.

Sitting in the sun on the porch the following morning, I join a site. The questions seem inane, silly. “About me?” Where do I start. “My basics?” These seem very obvious. “My favorite quality in a person?” Not having cancer. “My humble brag?” Nothing to brag about. “Hopefully you’re also really into?” Animals. That one is obvious. Five photographs? I think I have taken five selfies in my entire life. I include two photographs of my adult nieces and I, taken during their visit, afterwards. Three more. I take a picture sitting at my desk, which looks ridiculous, find a picture taken just a few years ago, in a dinner jacket. A professional look, I think. A picture with my niece’s children, the closest I have had to being a family man. I also include a picture of my two dogs. Dogs. Really, dogs? This is never going to work.

I set the parameters at 45 to 55. This seems a reasonable range. I am not going to be like one of my friends after their divorces, dating meeting someone born in the 90s.

My niece was right, there are so many women on the App, beautiful women: out with friends; playing tennis; hiking –it seems every single woman likes to hike; traveling -every woman loves traveling or is ready to travel. I wonder if I should be honest and identify that I have only left my house to go to the store in the past two (six) months. Will anyone look twice in my direction? Better to leave this out.

Days pass. I like several women, but I am unsure what to say, how to open the conversation, unsure if they will respond. I am awkward, but not in a charming or mysterious way.

One of the first people who “swipes” on my profile is a woman in her mid-fifties, very fit, her profile includes several (almost) revealing pictures of her in a tank top. She doesn’t proclaim a desire to hike or to fill her passport with exotic stamps. She looks normal, attractive, and I fail to notice “ENM” in the relationship status of her profile.

In her opening message, she says I have a nice smile and asks if the women in my pictures were my ex-girlfriends. “No,” I respond. “God no. They are my nieces –they are only 29.” I cannot believe it is even a question, maybe I need to change my photographs. “You would not believe the photos guys put on this site,” she tells me.

After a few other messages, she asks if “ENM is a deal breaker.” ENM, is that a position? A kink? I haven’t dated since I was 21 and not knowing what exactly she was asking, I quickly google “ENM”.

Ethical Non-Monogamy, for those who haven’t encountered this before, simply means that the person offering a date is in a relationship, usually married, and the couple has agreed to relationships outside of the marriage, with consent from the partner –my basic understanding was that if you become involved with one of the partners, you should be understanding that your relationship is not exclusive, because they already have a partner.

“Sure. I guess,” I write. “It would be my first time.” At fifty, did I think anything would be my first time?

My response is apparently sufficient, and we make a date to have coffee, the first date of choice for online romances; a chance to meet in person, but without the commitment of a meal or activity.

When I arrive at our meeting place, I look around, not seeing anyone I recognize. Did I pick the wrong coffee house? A text comes through the App: “I am over here, in front of the restaurant next door.”

Looking across, I am relieved. She is here and she is real. I am not being catfished. She look like her profile –I had read about people putting older or misleading photographs and did not know what to expect, although it seems silly not to be honest in this regard. If you meet someone who doesn’t resemble their photographs, do they walk away? If I say that I am 6’0” but I am 5’6” when I appear, wouldn’t that be obvious?

“I am sorry,” I start as I approach the table, “I thought we were meeting over at the Coffee Bean.”

“We were,” she responds. “I wanted to make sure you were who you said you were.”

“And if I wasn’t?” I ask.

“Then I wouldn’t have been here. Something would have come up.”

“It is nice to meet you in person,” I say, offering an awkward hug. She smiles, looking at me hard, but with a smile. I continue, trying to fill the space: “this is a really nice restaurant. I’ve never been here before.” It wasn’t really, I think I don’t know what to say, how to start. “So, what do you do?” I ask, wondering if I am already ruining the “date.”

She responds gently, sensing my nerves, providing general historical background, just the basics: married for 35 years to her high school sweetheart, three kids, runs a family business; likes to exercise. I ask appropriate follow up questions, complimenting her on the length of her marriage, trying not to think about my would-be anniversary that just came and went. “So,” I fumble, “how did you find yourself on the App?”

“Are you asking me why I am married and on an App?” she says with a small laugh, leaning in so that our conversation is not easily overheard.

“Yes,” I exhale. “To be honest, I didn’t know what ENM was before you said something. It is new to me.”

“It,” she laughs, “it is really not that big of a deal, or at least it shouldn’t be. We all have outside relationships we bring to these sites, mine is just a little more formal.” I fumble with the straw for my iced tea, waiting for her to continue.

“I love my husband; I would never leave him. A few years ago, I realized that my husband would not be able to satisfy my sexual appetite, but I also did not want to ruin our relationship, he isn’t just my husband, he is my everything. I decided I wanted to open our relationship, a chance to be together, build our marriage, and still be with other people.”

The waiter arrives and says something about the fish of the day, but while I smile and nodded, I am not listening. “We need a few more minutes,” she responds. After he walks away, she continues: “For me, I am a one guy kind of girl, well, my husband and one guy and I would never cheat. My husband has never thought about cheating. But if I had someone else, I thought, maybe it would strengthen our marriage.” She pauses, smiling and stirs her coffee. “It sounds like a cliché, but it is true. And I do not date around; I don’t f*ck around, no one-night stands. It has to be serious. And my boyfriend needs to meet my husband, and he has to approve. Is that something that would bother you?”

“Um, no, I mean I suppose I would want to meet him too, just to make sure he isn’t going to come after me with an axe.”

She laughs. “No, he is nothing like that. He is a supervisor in the County Planning Department, very bookish.”

“I guess that is good,” I don’t know what to say. “Your husband, does he have a girlfriend?”

“Yes, he has been with her for five years. He likes her. I like that he is happy. Her ex-husband even lives with us now.”

“Wait, do both of them live with you?” My eyes open wide.

“No, no. When she kicked him out of the house, he had nowhere to go and he moved in. But I am not with him, at least I haven’t been with him in years. He really isn’t my type, too controlling.”

I lean in closer as though we are sharing secret, not intended for prying ears. Any ice that existed is breaking with her honesty.

“But you do not have a boyfriend?” I ask. “I mean, right now?”

“No. He moved away and got engaged to a little tramp six months ago. Even though I am on the App, I am selective. I haven’t found anyone since him.”

“How long were you together?”

“Two years,” she responds. “It was a good relationship and he was great in bed. Really great in bed.” The waiter returns and without a pause she asks: “do you want to eat something?” handing me a menu. “I am hungry,” I respond, most out of habit. I have no appetite. “Sure, I could eat something.”

The lunch is . . . fun, pleasant, a little weird. She is the first non-family member I have spent more than fifteen minutes with. She is a good conversationalist, natural, telling me about her lifestyle. I think she is flirting, laughing even when my jokes were flat; telling me a story about her early attempts at swinging she places her hand on top of mine. Intentionally. She wanted me to feel her. I wasn’t sure if I would stay or run away; it is one thing to think about meeting someone else, but entirely something else to be here in public, with her hand on mine, near whisper in my ear. I feel the eyes of the lunching women to our left; I feel their judgment. They know what I am doing and are not pleased. “It seems a bit early for him to be dating,” I imagine the older one says with a scoff. “She is barely cold in the ground.” I want to tell them that she is not in the ground, she was cremated and is in my living room, but stop, realizing this may be in my head; how would they even know me here?

After an hour she says she had to “get home.” As we walk to the parking lot, she tells me that I need a new pictures on my profile. “Here, let me take one of you, stand by that tree.” I don’t know if this means that she is hinting that this will be our first and last meeting. “Go, go and stand over there,” she says, pointing in front of a live oak. She takes my picture and then say, “one more, that wasn’t a good one. Better.”

“If you want, let’s do this again,” she says, handing my phone back to me, but first dialing her number. “You can text me when you are ready.”

Ready? I don’t know if I am ready for anything. But I do miss touch, softness of skin, not sweating or on fire. Perfume, not hospital antiseptic or lilies, but roses. My heart raced, I feel guilt rising, my face flushed when she hugged me, her breasts pressing into me. Breasts, why am I thinking about them. Fucking breasts.

“Yes,” pain is building in my face, my mind is back to before. “I will text you.”

We did text, later that night. I need not to be alone. We talk on the phone the following day.

“How would it work?” I ask. “Do you still spend certain days or nights with your husband? Do you still have sex?”

“Oh, god yes. Usually two to three times a week. But if we were to get together, if I decide you would be right, I would basically spend Friday through Sunday at my house with my husband, and occasionally during holidays when my children come by to visit, but Monday through Thursday I would be all yours.”

“Your children are all grown, right? Do they know about your relationships?”

“No. Never. My daughters in law would use it against me. I could see them use it as a way to prevent me from seeing my grandchildren, when they have them.”

“Really? I would think your children would understand that this was your decision, that it was your choice.”

“No. We all go to the same church and they are very conservative, even sheltered. It would be a problem. I wouldn’t ever let them know.”

“So, I would be able to date, just not on Monday through Thursday?” I ask.

She laughs. “No, I would want us to be committed. Boyfriend and girlfriend. I couldn’t be with someone who was not committed to our relationship.”

At this comment I stop.

“Wait, you have a husband, and are having sex with him, but your partner is expected to be faithful?”

“Exactly. And believe me, I am worth it.”

I think about her offer, her indecent proposal. I think about it as I lay on my side of the bed, the television remaining licorice-dark. The absence of sound. I could continue living here, in this space, and nothing would have to change? At least on the weekdays. I could be having sex, and if she is telling the truth, lots of sex. On weekdays. I would have weekends to see concerts, visit the beach, maybe the movies, but alone. On Fridays and when children and their wives visit, when her daughter comes home from college on breaks, when she was with her family, I would be alone. I think about it. After a week the texts stop.

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should old acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup! and surely I’ll buy mine! And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne

(New Years, circa 2017)

this year has not been about forgetting acquaintances, but forgetting myself. my mind blocked, difficulty remembering the first few months, a blur of brief cognizance in the middle, and now it is the holidays --the holidays. i have been silent or detached from most of you and let me just say that i am sorry; i just couldn’t this year. this has been my first year alone, wandering and wondering if this feeling will ever go go away. i lost the person who walked and waked next to me each morning, the change to my being irrevocable, or so it seemed. for months i feel as though i have forever lost my other arms, my other legs, my other face.^[1] but i do not desire to be alone forever. i wonder whether drunken Aristophanes’ socratic hypothesis is flawed. what if i was born a multifaced hexapoda? this daydream creeps into my psyche, occupying more and more thoughts, but each night, alone, i despair that only insects can claim such configurations.

We two have run about the hills, and picked the daisies fine; But we’ve wandered many a weary foot, since auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup! and surely I’ll buy mine! And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

the holidays continue my confusion, unsure where i belong, unable to fully participate. i am repeatedly reminded that holidays are about families, being or returning home, but who are these gatherings of people and where is this magical place? is a family the one that two people built, when one is left? is family just the biological connection, despite deliberate distance built to maintain friendliness? and the Arthurian legend of a home, is it one of the places where i lived as a child, the current residence of my parents, the places chosen as an adult, or here, where every corner hides a specter, memories hanging as silent fog?

We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine; But seas between us broad have roared since auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup! and surely I’ll buy mine! And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

but there is more, they say. holidays are presents under a tree, a table piled high with a dead animal carcass, and sides, oh so many sides –aunt Jean, did you have two or three kinds of potatoes this year? no, i will not need an extra slice of turkey, i am certain nothing has changed since the last time i told you i am a pescatarian. and i know that i look thin. none of these things kindle a holiday feeling. a living tree cut down and brought in doors, slowly browning, only reminds that life can be capricious. the excesses of unnecessary gifts and a meal whose only intent is to gorging and gormandizing, my stomach clenches at the thought.

(Christmas Tree at Bellagio, Las Vegas, circa 2019)

And there’s a hand my trusty friend! And give me a hand o’ thine! And we’ll take a right good-will draught, for auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup! and surely I’ll buy mine! And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

even the gatherings have caused my soul to cloister. there is a hole at the table, an empty seat, a void that cannot be filled with a choreographed collection of people in bad sweaters. i cannot smile and listen to “yule tide carols being sung by the choir.” it seems culturally insensitive for just anyone to be “dressed up like eskimos.” “a turkey and some mistletoe will (not) help to make the season bright.” i am repeating myself, but Jean i really do not eat meat anymore.

this year i have been unable to don a happy face and embrace people i may not see next year or again. i am lucky to have family and people i could call friends that would have accepted my solo appearance and with the utmost sincerity told me that i “look (thin but) great,” or that i am “handling all of this so well.” i could have done so many different things for these days, these holidays, but deep down, after much thought and searching, i didn’t want to; i did not want to pretend or distract. for these holidays, and maybe for more to come, i need to be alone.

please do not think this an attack on your celebrations. i am ever so glad that you spent the nights before, or the days of, with your family, that you set the table with the good china, the silver, or the crystal bowl for the nog. i am happy that you were able to purchase, wrap, and open the gifts that were meaningfully selected online, or in actual brick and mortar stores, fighting the crowd and the parking headaches. even if the number has diminished, I smile when the holiday cards arrive in the mail, photographs of families gathering, laughing, and loving, the yearly update, reminding everyone that Mike is close to retirement. the social media posts and texts of morning hair, matching pajamas, and gift exchanges made me smile. but i just couldn’t this year.

these holidays have been inward facing, learning how to live in my new reality, holding onto memories of the past, possibly considering letting some of them go for the future. not bah humbug so much as maybe next year.

(Christmas Day, 2025)

all of my love.

^[1] the theory of the soul with two faces, four arms and four legs, divided at the whim a god has always fascinated me. is there only one person to connect with, only two in this vast world to form a union? “But the soul of each [affectionate lover and faithful friend] manifestly thirsts for, from the other, something which there are no words to describe, and divines that which it seeks, and traces obscurely the footsteps of its obscure desire.” Aristophanes, from Plato’s The Symposium (Shelley translation) it is a romantic notion, but i am beginning to believe it to be the thing of myth or imagination.

“Do you smell it,” you ask.

I do not, my smile is a reflection of your passion.

“The lemon and magnolia flowers.” You always smell the grandfloria.

Inhaling deeply, I say: “I do,” but I really do not; wait, there is a hint. “Yes, I do now.”

“Is it really December?” you ask, your light sweater resting on your lap.

“It is.”

This December day is unseasonably warm, sweaters remain on hangers, short pants removed from drawers, thick with unexpected creases. The winds rage from the East, warmth and dryness pushing out the moisture of the ocean; they swirl and shake the boughs, the drying leaves covering the yard, but I do not smell the citrus or lemon magnolia.

You are always able to find beauty in the world and create it when missing. Pastel rose bushes line our wall, their buds in desperate need of topping. Lavender, peach, and apricot pink roses blooming, opening their winter faces in the sunlight. I know that I should trim them back to prepare for spring, yet I hesitate, delay, refrain.

The wind carries the faintest echo of your voice, reminding me that this is my task, my obligation, because you cannot. I am the caretaker, the groundskeeper for your creations, for the beauty you carefully orchestrated. Today I agreed, consented. It has been more than a year; this needs to be done. Shears clipping, calm descends, unchallenged by the blood drawn by the prick of the thorns.

Pruning is an art and I clumsily attempt to replicate what you would instruct, how I watched you carefully perform, and how I think you would like me to do so. Only partly finished, I survey, deliberately missing a few bright flowered stems, until deciding that they should find a place in bedroom bouquet. One task mostly completed, just as the air quiets for the evening.

“I know,” I say to the departing wind. “I heard.”

You turn to me. “Guess what?” Your smile is radiant as we take an afternoon drive, an excursion to get you out of the house.

“We live here. No, we live here.”

“We do,” I say. “Can you believe it?”

You love to remind me that this is where we are supposed to be, that we finally found our home. Nevada, ugh, dusty, dry, and dead. Georgia, too far from your grandmother, the pines claustrophobic to your sensibilities, the horizon unable to be seen. Arizona, too damn hot, too close to trauma of childhood and people unable to see the person you have become. Here, in this place, the quiet Heritage Valley, surrounded by citrus and avocado orchards, there is a beauty we have never found before. The weather is nearly always perfect. Even December is almost always warmer than June, but never hot. Sunny afternoons give way to damp mornings. This is the place we have been searching; this is the best of our houses, of everything. . . well, not everything.

Yawning, and without preface, you say: “can you believe our home was in the paper because it hosted a three-family birthday party?”

You love that. It is one of your favorite stories to share. I wish I had saved digitized clipping, put it in a frame, hung it on the wall. What a world it must have been in 1943 to report on celebrations and parties, space not occupied by pain and sorrow.

“Our home is so calm,” you say, blanket wrapped, on the couch you ordered to exactly fit the space; your eyelids are heavy, it has been so much of late.

Yes, I think. “You made this a place where people want to relax, sit, and stay.” My affirmation is a whisper; my audience is finding sleep. I cover your shoulders, just to avoid a chill.

Today, the cashmere throw is unevenly folded on the walnut corner of the sofa, hanging over the button-tucked leather, cold to the touch, no one occupying to warm its surface. We do not live here any longer; it is just me. Both the front and back doors are open and the winds have returned with fury, the bass of the largest possible wind chime I could find sounds and I hear your voice in the tones. I should not retreat to the bedroom; take a moment for the perfect couch in this space, next to your blown glass urn. Take a moment. I listen to you and find my place; the dogs quizzically look on, that is not where I stop after I have finished my day. Sitting and closing my eyes I breathe deeply. Even after everything, the feeling of the house is soft, comforting. Minutes pass. Even with the small changes I have made, it is still you.

“Christmas is my favorite time,” you call from the other room. I am not certain if you are telling me or yourself. It certainly requires the most work to decorate.

“Did you bring everything down from the attic in the barn?” My job is to bring down the storage boxes from the attic and to affix lights to curtain rods that you cannot reach.

“Not everything, but as much as I think you want. Are you sure you do not want me to help you decorate?” I ask, my tone perfunctory.

“No, you will mess it all up. You do not know what you are doing.” Of course I know you are correct.

“Are we putting up the traditional or tin-tree this year?”

“No, the Mexican one,” your frustration evident. “Fifi will knock over the other tree and chew up the ornaments.”

I like the traditional fir better, covered in hundreds of ornaments we collected together, marking important dates and places, yet somehow uniform and perfect, because of your eye for beauty. Your choice means that two large plastic bins will remain in their space for another year. This is your decision to make; I do not argue.

Later I see the completed product. The tin tree is beautiful and the room is filled with holiday cheer, that elusive feeling of being overcrowded with red velvet, silvery sparkle, miniature pine trees, and pinecones; the transformation is a small holiday miracle. Before taking away the empty containers, I stop and hug you, kissing your forehead. You have dust smudged on your cheek and are not in the mood to be crowded with affection.

“It really is beautiful.”

“Tomorrow we are making gingerbread houses,” you remind me, which is meant as an instruction that I need to assemble the walls and ceilings, the neighborhood kids not having the patience to allow the frosting to dry before affixing an ungodly amount of candy to the roof and walkways.

“This is the third year,” I say, “aren’t they getting a little old?”

“They had never made them before we moved here,” you remind me. “It is a mess and annoying, but they won’t forget us. And they will be teenagers soon, so we need to stay on their good side.”

There is a wisdom to your madness. What was a novelty keeps us in a favored place, and the likelihood of teenage mischief is lessened with a lot of sugar, stale gingerbread, and a little love.

“Next year I am buying preassembled houses and they can just decorate.”

Our house has gone largely undecorated for too long. The Christmas after the diagnosis, you did not want the mess, and the nights were too much; while last year I couldn’t think of . . . well, anything, deciding to run away for most of December. This year, before the winds took their leave, a quiet voice whispered that it was time. I traversed the stairs, brought down just four bins, three large floor ornaments, and the wreath you decorated with plastic jeweled candied fruit. I change out batteries, lights illuminating the dark winterscapes. In the decorations I feel your presence more than before. I wonder if you are attracted to the holidays, the garlands and lights removed from their packing, unveiled after two years of slumber, or is it that you want to guide my clumsy hands, hating my attempts at decorating, a poor replication of memories of holidays past.

Red tartan plaid blanket covers the blue fleece I left on the loveseat, the things you loved are arranged: ceramic Mexican-folk nativity scene, bought in the summer of 2023 but never arranged, finds a place next to the tree of life; musical houses are lit, but switched to silent, their sounds chaotic and disruptive. The only accident comes when I try to insert a tree skirt and the star falls off of the top, hitting me in the head, scratching my lip and chin. A cloth applying pressure to stop the bleeding, I step outside.

The winds have departed and in their place there is a gentle breeze, the faint smell of wood smoke from a nearby chimney. Looking at the twinkling from the neighbor’s roof, as I hang the wreath and turn on the lights, this year feels different. This space, our space, yearns to be made pretty, special. I miss you. I love you. But for the first time I feel that you want me to move forward.

“I am not ready.”

“You are.”

Me: “My name is Chris and I am an alcoholic.”

Chorus: “Hello Chris.”

Me: “Thirteen years ago, yesterday, I had my last drink. Thirteen years ago, I blew up my life, completely fucked it up, had nowhere to tun, and came here. I found friendship, people who understood me, and somehow, I didn’t have a drink again. No matter how hard things have gotten since, and no matter how tempted I have been, I did the hard thing, I haven’t had a drink. At least not today.”

Chorus: “One day at a time.”

*****************************************************************************

I am visibly shaking as I park in front of the T.I.E Club on 11^th St. The neighborhood is not a place that anyone goes after dark, unless seeking small baggies or paid companionship. Eyes watch as I exit my German SUV, closing the door I see myself, the distorted image of my face, a true reflection of my soul. There is the physical withdrawal, of course, and it seems wrong to be sweating in 50-degree weather; but my mind is completely a mess, half-wanting to find something to permanently numb, but my survival instincts force my feet to step, breaths to follow. I do not want to end anything, that is why I am here. I am fighting to hold onto my marriage, me. My thumb rubs the space where my wedding ring should be, the indent, but I listened when she told me I couldn’t wear it until I am sober.

The room is bright, ecru ceramic tiles and wood panels from the 60’s. The air is filled with stale cigarettes and Folgers. No one is sitting in the tables in the second row. I do not want to be next to anyone.

(Image https://tie-club-inc.com-place.com/)

“Do you need your paper signed?” A voice is asking, unphased by my startled jump.

“Paper? I am not sure I know what you mean.”

“If you were forced to be here, you would. Make sure you sign the book up front if you plan to come back.”

The room is about half-filled, maybe thirty or forty people. A woman has sat down to my left and is searching in her purse, removing a blue book with a worn cover and yellow and pink neon tabs on numerous pages. “It always fills up around the holidays,” she says. I am not certain she is saying this to me, or just herself, but I nod, weary smile, rubbing the dark circles under my eyes with my fingertips.

The beginning of the meeting is scripted, known repetitions from most of the audience, the members. It feels like visiting mass with my grandmother, mimicking but not knowing when to stand or kneel. I am feeling even more of an outsider, I do not have the blue book that everyone is reading from –I do not even know what it is.

“Are there any people in their first thirty days?” the person up front asks. The woman seated next to me looks in my direction, but I keep my eyes to the floor. I do not think words would come from my mouth, even if I had the courage to speak. No one speaks up and he moves on. The host explains that this is a “Big Book Reading,” directing to a passage that will be read. Someone comes by with books for us to borrow, the reading, and then a discussion of “what it means.” The person leading the meeting then asks if there is anyone who would like to speak. My heart starts to race, sweat is pouring out of my arm pits, there is really no way I can say anything right now. “If this is your first time, we would ask that you not share for the first thirty days.” Holy f*ck, thank you.

A young woman rises and walks to the lectern. She does not hesitate, she is confident, but sorrow clouds her face. She introduces herself, identifies herself as an alcoholic. “Hi Mandie,” the room echoes.

I have been sober for eleven months. Three hundred forty-two days.

I have been drinking since I was twelve. I started sneaking alcohol from my parents and drank with my friends in school. I thought it was just kids’ stuff, but my friends would only drink on the weekdays, while I would find an excuse most nights. I never thought it was a problem. I worked, I was married but got divorced because we both drank too much and would fight. I had a daughter that I mostly did a good job caring for, and there were days that I didn’t drink. But when I did, I drank,” she raises her eyebrows, emphasizing the last part of her sentence. There is knowing laughter from some.

But it wasn’t just the booze. I also liked party favors, and my party favor was Crack. Cocaine and alcohol, a Las Vegas special cocktail. When I was smoking, I would drink more and more, I would be up for days, one big party. But parties end, and everyone goes home. And everyone in my life left me, tired of my shit, tired of my yelling, my crying, my drama, but not my daughter. I got fired from my job; it was taking up too much time that I could use drinking. The party was over and I couldn’t see it.

Last Thanksgiving I was desperate, I was broke, and I didn’t know what I was going to do. Even my mother stopped returning my calls. My daughter needed diapers and food and I thought no one cared. I was angry at everyone else for not helping me, so I got it in my head that I needed a drink, but what? I knew I had rubbing alcohol in my medicine cabinet. Someone told me it could make you blind, but at that moment I didn’t care. I drank it straight, no mixer and then smoked the last little bit of crack I could find from the carpet. When I lit the pipe, it blew up in my face. Literally, my face caught on fire, and then my apartment. I was taken to the hospital and then to CCDC for endangering my daughter and arson. I was in jail for three months and only released to come here and live in the half-way house across the street. (She gestured over her shoulder.)

I came here and I haven’t looked back, I haven’t done anything but come to meetings, to meet with my sponsor. No crack, no booze. I just keep coming back.

It has been hard, but in some ways, it has been my best year. I go to work every day, not just the days that I don’t feel too hung over to call in. I don’t lay in bed worrying about what I did last night when I was fucked up. I don’t feel the shame that I felt every single day --every single day. But for all of the good things, I haven’t been allowed to see my daughter, not since I was taken to the hospital and she was taken to foster care. But just yesterday the judge said that he is allowing me to see her for two hours on Thursday. (Tears were falling down her face as her voice caught. Tears were on the corners of my eyes.) For the first time in nearly a year, I am allowed to see my daughter, with supervision, but that is ok, I get to see her. All because of this Program, all because of this Place, and all of you.

There is celebratory clapping; several people rise and give her a hug; someone says, “keep coming back.” My insides knot in sadness and joy for her. I am unable to take my eyes off her while she speaks, even as she walks back to her seat. Holy shit. She set her face on fire and she is still here. She hasn’t seen her daughter in a year and she is still not drinking. When the wicker basket is passed, I put in $5.00. A slight man with one of the kindest faces I have ever encountered stands behind the lectern: “my heroes and my she-roes, alcohol is a cruel and terrible bitch, but together, all of us together, with the help of our higher powers, we can beat it, it won’t win.” More clapping, but I can see that there are people in the back rows unmoved, bored even, paper slips held in their hand. After announcements about upcoming events and special meetings for the Holiday, everyone stands and forms a circle around the outside of the room. I follow everyone’s lead. When the person next to me tries to take my hand, I realize my palm is damp, wiping it against my pants. The Lord’s Prayer is recited. I know this one and join in, even if I am not sure about the existence of a god:

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen

The Serenity Prayer is then spoken in unison, which is helpfully on a poster on the back wall, but I remain silent:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things that I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Several people call out: One day at a time. Chairs are rearranged for the morning meeting, but I generally avoid everyone’s eyes to leave into the parking lot. One person places a hand on my shoulder, “good to see you, keep coming back.” I nod and try to smile, tears are falling down my cheeks, I just need to get into my car. To go back home. Liz calls while I am in the car, “did you go?” There is no kindness in her voice, just confirming. “Yes,” I say. “Good.” Silence.

I come back each night, leaving my office after unproductive attempts at working. It wasn’t so much the absence of alcohol, but the realization that I had caused all of this –it wasn’t the drinking, it was me. My mind is not on my job.

On the third day I raise my hand, acknowledging that I am within the first thirty days. My voice catches as I try to say my name, and that I am an alcoholic. “Welcome Chris,” the chorus of voices says.

At the end of the first week, I start talking to people in the meetings. “CJ” congratulates each of us as his “heroes and she-roes” tells me his story about living for seven years in a bush only a half a block from my office –yes, his bush, he had a sign that had his name on it. He lost all ties to his family, stole from anyone who loved him, and was arrested several times. However, when he started coming to meetings he stopped drinking, made new friends, got married, had two kids, and moved into a real house, which he now owns. “I even have two cars,” he tells me. “They are only Toyotas, but they work, even have air-conditioning.” Another senior member, who thanks me for bringing him coffee to his electric wheelchair, has been sober for forty-five years; really forty-five, he stopped drinking in 1967. He doesn’t talk as much about his own story, although he mentions being a famous magician a long time before, and “actually met Bill” at a conference in the “60’s”. I do not know the importance of Bill, but I tell him that is “pretty cool.” He tells me he goes to meetings in the mornings, at lunch time, and every night. He tells me about the people he sponsors, and how important it is to find a sponsor, to do the steps, and to keep coming back and not drinking. I am a little worried that the Program is his entire life, because I am not sure I can give up everything.

I am becoming more familiar, accepted. People say hello when I arrive, even if a distance is kept by some. I interpret the separation to a distrust of people wearing a tie or collared shirt; this isn’t the meeting place for professionals, most people are from the half-way house, are court ordered, or live in hotels that charge for your linens. After I purchase the Big Book, the person asks if I want to make the T.I.E. club my home, to be put into its roll. I agree. I will be coming back.

Each night, for the first thirty-days, I stand and announce that I am an alcoholic and still haven’t made it to more than a month. I am nervous each time the speaker asks for people to tell their stories, glad that I am not recommended to share. But each person who offers their experience, I am amazed; they are so honest and almost always funny. Even tragic drunk stories can be funny when you see yourself reflected. I keep coming back.

While attending meetings, I am also seeing a therapist, a second promise to try to put back together everything that tore apart, my personal Kintsugi. The wisdom and insight I hear each night is not reflected in my daytime therapy sessions. I am honest with the therapist, which is something I have not been even with myself for years, but I am not sure he is really listening. One day I tell him that the only way I am making it through the day is to exercise and go to meetings. He tells me it is a good thing that I am not drinking, especially since I had “poor decision-making skills when intoxicated.” I may have rolled my eyes in response; this I know, my poor decisions are why I am here, what he is supposed to be helping me with. I confess to the pain I have caused and that I am not sure my marriage will survive. “Some don’t,” he says, “but you have to learn to make better decisions for you. You can only control you.” This is not what I want to hear –some don’t make it. Then why am I here? He tells me that he and his wife like to have one glass of wine and relax in their hot tub each night. “It is our bonding time,” he says. Really? Really? Inside I am seething. I can’t have wine, I am an alcoholic. We aren’t bonding, I am not even sleeping in our bed. What the literal f*ck. I keep going for four more weeks, but only because I promised. I stop listening to anything he has to say, except when he agrees that I shouldn’t unburden all of my sins to Liz. “No,” he says, “you may feel better, but she will not forget. Just don’t make the same mistakes again.” My selective hearing acknowledges these words. At the end he tells me that I am “doing great, keep exercising” and that I “understand my problems. Just practice the emotional exercises we have discussed and try not to drink.” I write down his words in my notebook as an act of personal sarcasm.

I have a sponsor and try other meetings, a lawyer group, and different locations, some in the nice parts of town. I am unhappy with each. I do not want to listen to people talk about crashing their BMW or missing private school performances. These are real problems, but I need real stories, real people, told by someone who was arrested for selling her body to buy “jug wine.”

At the end of a year, I have only missed five meetings. Five meetings when we travel to look for a place to live away from Las Vegas, for the change we both think we need. At the one-year anniversary Liz comes to the meeting; I introduce her to my friends. Several of the members are being overly friendly, showing just a little too much affection in their hugs. I see the look in her eyes, and I make myself a buffer, guiding her to a chair near to the front. Mandie is at this meeting, her daughter running from the kitchen to the tables and back.

When it is time for me to speak, the first time for me tell my story, I am shaking as the one-year chip is handed to me. Even though I can always talk, no matter the time or occasion, my mouth is sandpaper dry and my emotions begin to overflow, my voice breaking as I start:

My name is Chris, and I am an alcoholic. (“Hello Chris”). I have been sober for exactly one year, today.

Looking at the room I simultaneously want to vomit and collapse. Seeing Liz’s eyes, a smile of support, I continue:

I know this is something to celebrate, a milestone, an anniversary to be proud of, but the hard thing is that just one year and a day ago, I was at the lowest place of my life. I hurt the one person I loved the most, and it was mostly because of my drinking. I drank and I didn’t care about life. And I drank and didn’t care who I was hurting. I drank every day, every single day for twenty years. Every single day. If I was happy, I drank. If I was sad, I really drank. If I was hung over, from drinking too much the night before, I drank to make it through the morning and then start again. I never, ever missed a day. I would try to change my drinking, stopping the brown liquors, or limiting the number of drinks: I will be ok if I only have two drinks a night, but of course the two drinks were as big as I could make, and I really didn’t need to count shots of tequila, because those are just shots. Nothing I tried controlled my drinking. I told myself I would never drink at work, but then I started keeping just a little bottle in my desk. I found restaurants that were within drunk driving distance. It was all I would think about. I stopped wanting to go out with friends, preferring to be at home, where no one would judge me, at least until I woke up the next morning and couldn’t remember feeding the dogs, or what I did the night before. Black outs. I was worried the first few times, telling myself that I needed to be more careful, because I could not trust myself when I was blackout drunk, but they started becoming so common I just didn’t care. Shows, concerts, movies, I never knew how they ended and I didn’t care if I had to be carried to the passenger seat by security.

The thing that I have learned over the past year is that it wasn’t that I didn’t care; I did care, just only about alcohol. The fucked-up situations I put myself in, I didn’t care. The pain I was causing my family, those few friends that tolerated me, I didn’t care. What cared about was when I would have my next drink. I cared that my bar was stocked and that my jars of pickled onions were in the fridge. I did care, but it was about all of the wrong things.

One year ago, I came into this room, shaking from guilt and the sadness I caused to the person I love more than anyone, than anything. I sat right over there, silent for the first week, afraid to talk, to meet anyone, for anyone to realize the person I had become, who I was. I was alone and I thought no one could understand what I was going through, what an asshole I had become. But I came. I listened to all of you. I found that I was not alone, that I was not special. I read the Big Book and everything it said seemed directed at me –a book written in the 1930s could have been written yesterday. I knew that nothing I had tried before coming in her had worked, so I put my faith in my higher power and I put my faith in you, each of you. One day at a time, I just showed up, put my ego aside, and here we are. One year.

This chip is about all of you, this program, but most importantly, it is about the person who supported me, believed in me, and helped me to realize that I could be sober. Thank you Liz.

I give Liz a gentle hug when I leave the podium. I am not forgiven, but in this moment she is allowing me to show her that things have changed, that I have changed. I hold the coin in my pocket.

Just keep coming back. I won’t as much as I should, but I won’t drink. I guess that is something.

The door is closed. The machines are silent. The lights and screens are dark, warnings unset. Tubes listless and hanging without purpose. The privacy curtain remains drawn, even though it is just us two.

Alone, I exhale, looking at my lap, then to my side, not wanting my eyes to fall onto you. The stark white of the room is disrupted by the cut roses from your garden, the balloons on sticks, and the cards, wishing a Happy Birthday. Tears should be falling, but there is only my broken breath to echo in the silence.

I hate this place, but I hate that this is the end more, that this is where we end.

It is not your hand I hold. They are your fingers, so long and thin, the indent of your wedding ring is still present, but they seem foreign, they are not you; you are not here.

“We will give you as much time as you need,” the nurse said before closing the door. Time. How much time can I take when this is the end of thirty years together. More than thirty years, actually, since we first met, since I first saw you. And now I get “time” with you before I have to leave. To leave you. Forever.

After a minute or two, I can’t help but to talk, but not necessarily to the bed, to your body. “I understand. I know you had to leave,” I say, allowing my eyes to find you, your unmoving features set. “I know you wanted to stay, but it was just too much; too much pain, too much of everything. It is OK.”

I place your hand on the bed, next to the lowered rail and stand. I am deliberate in my breathing, afraid I will lose consciousness if I do not force deep inhales, stuttered exhales, as I pace. I do not know what to say. I do not know what to do. For the first time in more than thirty years I feel completely alone. You are gone and it is just me.

I am sure that I said many things in the moment, but they remain blocked, barricaded in my mind, small moments wicking outwards with time. I know we were alone for more than thirty minutes, but I only remember the end, and that I promised to keep going, and to still talk to your mother.

Placing my head in your lap, I kiss the palm of your hand.

It has been a long journey.

You are my best friend. I whisper, “thank you.”

I have told the story of our first meeting and date so many times. Forgive me this one last time.

A Friday night and I am mentally and physically exhausted. Two weeks before, when taking my then-girlfriend to her apartment to pick up her things from her ex-boyfriend, he found us leaving their former apartment, suitcase in hand, stopping in front of my motorcycle, blocking our exit. He yells, but doesn’t say anything that deserves repeating, removing a 9 mm from his waistband, pointing but not shooting. She screams: “Stop It! He is Just a Friend!” The gun lowers slightly, obscenities in Spanish, and I accelerate swerving right past him. When we arrive at my place, heart racing and blood beating in my ears, I ask why she called me her “friend.” She doesn’t answer and leaves, calling later to say she decided that it is “best that we not see each other for a while, to give him time to cool off.” A little while turned into we were done.

This Friday, two weeks after staring at the barrel of a gun, too stupid to realize my own mortality, I decide I need to be embrace being alone --alone with my thoughts and not to obsess over a woman with a crazy ex-boyfriend who wanted to kill me, or her, I am not sure. Alone. Haircut, alone. Movie, alone.

I decide to get my haircut at The Coyote Wore Sideburns, after reading a bus stop bench ad: “If your hair isn’t becoming to you . . . then you should be coming to us.” The subtle humor is enough to make them stand out. My stylist, Charlz, wore his shoulder length red hair in tight curls, teased as much as possible, donning a top hat in September —imagine Slash with bright red hair. He is bitchy and sarcastic; it is difficult to tell if you are liked, hated, or just tolerated. He cuts my ear, wiping blood from his scissors, telling me to “stay still,” and somehow, it feels my fault.

Sitting in the chair, I unburden like every client, sharing secrets more properly reserved for a therapist. I tell the story of the break up and the firearm. He laughs dryly, which is not exactly what I expect, saying I am “better off”. Better off not being shot? Better off without her? I do not ask. He turns me to face the front of the salon and I see you.

You wear a black spring slip dress with small flowers and thirteen-hole Dr. Martins. The sun light from the late afternoon silhouettes your figure as you lean against the front desk. Angelic. I then see the shape of your butt, which does not seem real, out of place. You are so tiny, so thin. I blush with the thoughts in my mind. You laugh on the phone, full and without care, rouge-red lips parted, your head tilted back. I have never seen you before.

“Who is that,” I fumble when Charlz turns me around in the chair, as I keep trying to turn my head to not-so-subtly look in your direction.

“Oh, her,” Charlz says with no more than glance in your direction. He seems annoyed. “She calls herself the ‘hair care coordinator,’ but I just call her the “receptionist.” He places his hand on the top of my head and forcefully turns me away, in his direction, but I try to look at you out of the corner of my eyes.

“She is phenomenal.”

His face is unmoving, trimming errant cowlick hairs.

My heart beats so fast, too fast, and Charlz allows a moment of kindness, my eyes a moment or two longer, before turning me to face the mirror. The rest of the appointment is a blur.

When I approach the front desk to pay, you are polite, taking my money. I am unable to think of something clever to say, except for fumbling: “I like your hair.” You smile politely, the phone between your ear and shoulder, start to hand me the change, but then cover the receiver and ask: “do you want me to give the rest to Charlz?” You talked to me, I try to think of something clever, but only respond by saying “of course.” My cheeks are burning, but you have already turned and our conversation ends. I walk outside into the September sun, my mind staying in the conversation, replaying my stupid compliment, staring into your eyes. I turn and see the front desk is empty.

“A table for one,” the host asks when I arrive.

“Yes,” I say, trying to be casual, hoping my deliberate choice will be recognized. I almost mention that I am choosing to eat alone, but the girl with the menu does not care. Eyes follow me as I am led through the restaurant; I can tell that they wonder why I do not have friends to meet on a Friday night. I sit in a table for two, but the waitress removes the opposite setting without even asking; she knows I do not have anyone to meet. Families surround my table on all sides, happy, celebrating the end of the week, their laughter amplified off of the rust ceramic floor tiles; there are two couples dancing near the stage to a Tejano band. I cannot wait to finish, pay and leave. I am stuck in my head, separating the beans from the rice, images of a gun interrupted by a flowered sundress, red lips and white teeth.

Inside my helmet, the night smells of rain. The monsoon will be here tomorrow, but right now it is just thick and humid. The cicada clicks and cries drown my thoughts as I park in front of the theater where I work. Even the insects are uncomfortable. At least I am not alone.

The movie, Singles, is the wrong movie to watch alone after a breakup. If there is a plot, I cannot become engaged; I am not interested. Citizen Dick is just a stupid name for a band and Matt Dillon --Cliff, he doesn’t really pull off the grunge rockstar vibe. More like a Hollywood guy trying to be hip, with stupid facial hair. Much more believable as the valet in a coral polo. This movie isn’t about singles, at least not people who are choosing to be single. It is about hook ups and love, fucking love, not what I needed. I am even more depressed as I leave. An utter and colossal fail.

I arrive at my trailer, turning on the lights, throwing my helmet on the couch, it rolls off onto the floor. Jesus! Nothing is going right. The wood paneled room is claustrophobic. What am I doing here? A light blinks on the answering machine. No one ever calls me. I hesitate before pushing play:

“Hi Chris,” Charlz’s deliberate drawl fills the space, “give me a call.”

What? Why? Charlz has never called me before, I didn’t even know he knew my number. Did I forget something? Didn’t I pay enough? Does he like me? I mean, I don’t think I gave him the impression I was into that. But for the tiniest of seconds, a thought arises: what if he told the girl at the desk what I said? No, that is just stupid, she is much too pretty for you. I must have left something behind.

Morning arrives and I have barely slept. Anticipation, fear, doubt, and the tiniest bit of hope fighting to dominate my thoughts. I wait until afternoon, unsure I want to know the reason for the call. The line rings once, twice, three times, four times (please don’t let me get his machine).

“Hello?”

“Hi Charlz, um, this is Chris, your client. You called?”

“Oh, right.” He pauses completely unnecessarily. “So I told Liz about what you said. She said you could call her if you want.”

It is my turn to pause. The silence on my end lasts far too long. If an internal jump for joy was visible, I am a pogo stick. “Are you still there?” he asks.

“Sorry. I mean, yes. I cannot believe it. Thank you so much. Really. I don’t know how to thank you.” Pretending to be casual is not succeeding, excitement evident in my tone, the quickness of my speech.

“OK. Good luck.” He is so detached, disinterested, completely unaware how much I thought about her all night, how I did not want to be single, did not want to eat alone, get my haircut alone, to go to the movies alone.

You answer my call, thank jesus I didn’t have to leave a message. I wasn’t trying to be coy by waiting, I just didn’t have the confidence to call that day. I needed a drink, something to make me funnier, more self-assured. We talk for two hours. About everything. Art, music (we like many of the same bands), Tucson, and how hard it is to meet good people. I think to myself, if by “good people” you mean goddesses, I do not know that I can complain. There are no pauses, nothing awkward. Natural. You agree to go to a movie for a first date, Innocent Blood, with Anne Parillaud. I say I like French films. You say you like The Hunger. I have no idea what that is, but agreed, “cool.”

As I approach your door, feeling punched in the stomach, nervous in anticipation, a man is laying mostly naked on a lounger, in very small trunks, sunbathing in the late afternoon light with a tanning reflector, ten feet from your door. He stares at me as I knock on the door, trying to find something to do with my hands as I wait for an answer. His stare is unnerving, his tan unnatural. Your mother is sitting on the couch as I enter your apartment. She remains focused on the television as though I do not exist. I want to say something, but you grab my arm and we leave without word to either of the two.

We stop for coffee on the way to the movie. I haven’t eaten all day and caffeine is not a good idea for my stomach, but it seems like something you do on a first date, right? My nerves are obvious and you place your hand on my bouncing knee, laughing at an anecdote about the silliness of the kids working at the theater. I know I am blushing, flushed from start to finish. I am completely entranced. Funny. Brillant. Beautiful. I keep thinking that I cannot believe that you agreed to go out with me. I expect at any moment a guy to run up, hit me in my naïve, stupid face. There has to be something that will ruin this moment.

At the movie my stomach starts to cramp, metallic taste on the back of my tongue. The lack of food, the caffeine, as we sit close but not touching in the dark, eyes to the screen, sudden nausea is overwhelming. I get up suddenly, saying I need to “run to the bathroom;” vomiting on the first date in the theater will be ruinous. Your eyes puzzle, questioning my rush as I again try to play it cool, explaining “I will be right back, tell me what I miss.”

I was right, arriving in the bathroom just in time before my nerves and excitement erupt. Fuck, I think, I don’t have any gum or a mint. There goes even thinking of a first-date kiss.

Back in my seat, you ask if “everything is OK?” I assure you it is fine, wiping away perspiration, “I just needed to talk to the manager before she leaves.” Your sideways look calls into question my lie, but you provide grace to my excuse.

After the movie we talk more. About the movie, Anne is so beautiful, but the plot was a bit strained. I do not want to take you home, not now, but you say that you work in the morning. I understand. I want to give you a hug, to be close, inhale your perfume. Suddenly, without warning, as I lean in for a date-appropriate embrace, you turn your head to give me a kiss. I close my lips, hoping against hope that my breath does not betray. It is awkward, but you don’t say anything. I really hope I did not ruin this.

“Can I see you again?” I ask with a mixture of hesitance and weak bravado.

“Sure. I am free Thursday.”

I can wait three days. There is a Russian Ballet in town, I just need tickets. Can I wear a suit and ride a motorcycle?

I am in love. I could spend every night with you. Forever.

(Collection Buffalo AKG Art Museum, Gift of Seymour H. Knox, Jr., 1956)

Afternoon, I stop working and think. Thoughts swirl, non-linear, Convergence. Memories, thoughts, images in a Moreau-hybrid of worries about the future, overlayed upon conversations and imagined arguments wreak havoc, shattering Wedgwood, tossing plates onto the floor, exiting with haste. Despite the chaos, one theme keeps rising, stepping forward from the crowd: change. I need something different. Exactly what needs to be amended, deleted, or added, this is not clear. Sometimes I think it is my space, living in a mausoleum of memories; nearly everything I touch is connected to her. Other times, I think about a change of careers, not because I cannot do my job, but because I am not satisfied and I resent it just the slightest bit –this job kept me away during the last months of her life. I also find myself unable to engage in conflict, a certainly questionable trait for a litigator.

I am in a state of ludiosis, simply making it up as I go along, and terribly imperfectly at that.^[1] I tell myself that I am making progress and daily episodes of grief have subsided; some days I can get through an entire day without an image, a thought about how scared she was, and how ineffective I was at soothing her worry –they still exist, but not as often or last as long. Progress. But how do I keep moving forward, how do I stop my spinning, both in my head and existence?

I open my phone to check Substack, it is a distraction that I find more often than I like admit. Before I can open it, the home screen of my phone presents a slideshow of memories, without ever asking my permission. Images of a different time, place, existence. I see her celebrating a birthday, with Bella and Isaiah at the pumpkin patch. A smile and deep breaths of sorrow.

Her reappearance is fleeting. She is gone. I do not feel her presence. She hasn’t visited my dreams but twice –once was confusing, she came back and was looking for her things; the other was indescribable anger, the dream evaporated when I awoke. I do not think she is planning on giving me any help, I am on my own now; I am alone.

The disconnectedness has fractured my connections with family, friends, people I work with. I do not have the energy to reach out, to have meaningful telephone calls or important conversations over coffee –it is not that I do not have calls or coffee, it is just that I deflect the questions about my well-being; once in public I turn into superficiality, deflecting any questions about happiness or well-being. Conversations become about the weather or the state of the roads. The only place I find myself expressing my inner monologue is here, and these conversations are invariably one-sided; challenges or questions come from my own self-doubts, my own questioning of my words, my writing.

After I stop working, I am at my worst, when there are no necessary distractions. I feel tired earlier than I should, it is only 6:00 PM, but I could lay down. When exhaustion sets in, my questions increase; my critical internal voice turns from a conversation to a shouting match. I cannot even turn on the television for distraction; each news story adds to the anxiety I feel. I worry about my friends and neighbors, especially those who are not citizens. Possible decisions on the Voter’s Rights Act send me in a tailspin, worries compounding with possible future elections, the hate and reveling in unnecessary pain a mirror of my conflict I cannot set aside. I want to write, to excise my demons, but I start and stop; I cannot find a thread to unravel that does not feel repetitive. Again, I open my feed. Suddenly I am awake, Idlewild. ^[2] A writer I enjoy has been experiencing financial and emotional troubles and has moved back home; I worry about this decision, whether anyone can really go home after living and changing in another state. Another of my favorite writers is not posting, surprisingly silent, and I double check to ensure I haven’t missed something, sending a message, “just to check in.” These anxious feelings are not me, at least they weren’t before. I message a mutual friend, wondering if she knows anything; she confirms the absence, but tries to assuage that it is probably just a break, a mental health moment. While I scroll the notes my anxiety builds, now displaced anxiety for my friends on the platform and unkind or inappropriate responses to posts, anything to not be worrying about my life. I follow too many writers, I think, what am I searching for? As I read another post, another note, my eye lids weigh as I fall into a piece about working in a hotel in Los Angeles. Substack becoming written lidocaine, numbing my frontal lobe, my prefrontal cortex. I need to set close the app, and I restlessly find sleep.

The alarm pierces my tentative sleep. After exercising, I sit and drink coffee on the porch. The sunlight warm on my face. It is a beautiful day. Kairosclerosis.^[3] In this moment I feel . . . well, not happy, but it is a such a lovely day, something I will dissect later, not now.

There is an orb weaver spider between the railing and the Bistro string of lights, the symmetrical pattern of its web glistening. She is unafraid of my presence, her web sways in the breeze. We converse, mostly me doing the talking, as to why she isn’t catching more flies or, if possible, please try to trap mosquitos. She maintains her silence, her obstinance an instruction that if I leave her alone she will return the favor. I tell her not to leave, even though I know she will depart when the mornings start to hold a chill or the winds return.

The sun has been rising later and daylight savings will soon be here, shortening the afternoons; but this morning has a crispness after an unseasonably warm weekend. My two four-legged companions lounge on the cushion across from me, her chair that I never occupy, celebrating the sensible heat. I do not check emails or take calls, music playing gently from my dining room, which has been coopted for daily work. Instinctively I open the App and begin to check in with the writers I follow. Morning posts feel lighter, reflected by a note celebrating kindness, which I like. At this moment life does feel ok. No need to make any big decisions. I might just be able to do this.

(these pieces of art were birthday gifts by two of the most talented artists I know)

Routine & Connections

Author’s note: this is a reflection on the relationship we shared. It is not reflective of the entirety of our experience, but it is still vivid in my mind.

“With him, life was routine; without him, life was unbearable.” ― Scout. Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

“How is everything at home,” I ask, sitting at the edge of my bed, papers lying to my side. “You? The dogs, everyone doing OK?” There was an unnatural silence on the other end of the line.

“It isn’t the same without you here,” she says into the line, annoyance with a touch of sadness in her tone, and pauses.

“I really do not like being alone. You know I am not eating and I can’t sleep. The dogs bark at every little sound, expecting you to come in the door. I want to come with you next time.”

I was staying overnight in Odessa, before traveling to Midland (Texas) in the morning. I felt in the middle of nowhere, inside and out; the early summer was oppressive and thick. I didn’t want to be here. In the town center, stores were closed at sunset and little evidence of life could be found –there weren’t any birds calling from the trees, even pigeons abandoned the sidewalks. There was one street with movement, people dressed in business attire, jackets and ties, skirts with hose, quickly entering a restaurant or bar, but two streets past, it was desolate. At five o’clock the inhabitants of office buildings departed in a mass exodus, lines of cars waiting to enter the highway. It was possible I was projecting my feelings, but what a shithole. I missed Liz, our family, and our routine. I was only in Texas for three days, rushing from one place to another, from one private prison housing immigration detainees to office buildings with lawyers –my least favorite people. Even the hotel room was ugly, the pressed wooden panels faded and simultaneously dirty, the pillows were flat; she would have hated being here.

“You can come with me the next time I have to travel.”

“You promise?”

“I swear, if I have to travel, you will come too.” There was a softening of her voice in response to my vow. “I will see you late tomorrow night.”

And I (mostly) kept my promise. For years to follow, if I had to travel overnight, we would go together. It wasn’t exciting, each trip to New Orleans or Chicago was balanced with road trips to Bakersfield (California), St. George (Utah), and once we moved to Ventura, there were near weekly overnight trips to the office in Las Vegas. It was our pattern, our routine –to be together.

It was truly rare that we would be separated. I changed my schedule to be home even during the day. I would make it a point to come home for lunch, three to four days a week, and would arrive home each night from my office within a thirty-minute window. If I was working late, there would be multiple calls, just to check in. We were codependent, but it generally worked. The routine was something that I liked and for Liz, who grew up in a household where her parents’ separation was a semi-annual occurrence, divorce occurring twice, electricity not always guaranteed when a switch was lifted, it was a necessity.

There were weeks that our days would be near mirror images of the preceding day, and yet the small things made each day worthwhile: the laughter, the touch as we lay next to each other watching television, the small signs of affection, words of love reminding the other multiple times each day.

Because life changes, the routines would change; our daily activities altered by (my) sobriety, relatives and children living with us, even moving to a different state, but our connection remained a constant, we were always together. Even when cancer took control of days and nights, life altered and in upheaval, we only grew closer. Each day before we would fall asleep, no matter how short the period of rest may have been, one or both of us would say “I love you,” kiss the other, or nestle into the arm and shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of her breath.

As the end of October approaches, more than thirteen months after she passed, Liz’s absence has been weighing heavier than just a few months before; I am alone and unsure if this will change. I miss her, everything about her, but especially my friend and my companion.

^[1] John Kenig, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows: https://www.thedictionaryofobscuresorrows.com

^[2] John Kenig, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows: https://www.thedictionaryofobscuresorrows.com

^[3] John Kenig, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows: https://www.thedictionaryofobscuresorrows.com