Category: Summer of Love

2020.

Again.

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As hard as this is to believe, to even contemplate, it’s even harder to endure.

I had a love. I lost him to death, the natural causes kind where you find yourself agonizing for two days over modem medicine and its inadequacy to save a man in his fifties and then on Friday you learn that it’s too late and it’s not a dream and it can’t be undone and here comes the pain.

And then I had a new love. I lost him to death, the natural causes kind where it’s Friday again and it’s too late to save a man in his fifties and it’s not a dream and it can’t be undone and here comes the pain.

old pain/new pain they feel so much the same and the common denominator is me at the bottom of the equation and will the pain never stop.

I love you, Chuck.

I love you, Dan.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday

Location, Location, Location

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The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Sept. 19/2020

I have permitted myself to look at on line real estate sites.

Moving out of this house, if it happens, is probably three or four years away. There are complications. Two existing homes, two careers, two families, and the accumulation of two lifetimes. Two states. Two sets of tax laws.

But I let myself look.

Some things are already in the calculation. Waterfront. Lake, by most indications. Isolation. Trees, acreage, spots made for coffee and contemplation. A kitchen for two to work side by side in cooperation. Blue and white is the kitchen color coordination.

For the rest of it, I leave that to the exigencies of fate. The happy home will present itself somehow – it will ask to be owned. I’m just making myself available to its inevitable presentation.

Just as long as it doesn’t become too much of a preoccupation.

Collared Greens

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Stream of consciousness Satur
days

Harlei-Dog’s collar has small flecks of blood on it from the day during quarantine – can you blame them – when he fought Daisy-Dog for the first bite of the still-too-hot sweet potato.

Daisy-Dog’s collar comes off too easily when she prances into the too-tall weeds while the dew is still on them and she comes prancing back like she’s been to the raccoons’ secret pool party.

I collar both of them as they try to sneak in too quiet to smear the too-tight-in-some-places too-far-apart-in-others wood kitchen floor. “Paws!” I demand. They never wipe them. Too stubborn.

I get a little hot under the collar. “PAWS!” They ignore me. The green weeds call. Too tempting.

It’s a good thing I own a weed whacker. I’m gonna chop me some greens.

Post script: Daisy-Dog actually did wriggle out of, and lose, her collar in the weeds. I’m still looking: Sunday, 6:43 pm