October 26, 2001 – May 14, 2016.
Dixie has been my constant roommate, travel companion and comforter for almost fifteen years.
Little pieces of life leave. Fissures in the dam. And I cry endlessly with each. Those fissures repair themselves eventually or that dam would break and I’d flood all life downstream.
I imagine Towanda Yazcat and Fefe will terrorize me for a few days as they adjust to not having Dixie to pick on (don’t get me wrong – she loved the attention). And I’m a big sloppy mess.
I love you, Dixie. Forever.
My man is really special, and from all indications he likes coming home. He likes our life together. There IS a secret that helps make this possible. At least the empirical evidence of Debi’s life quality points to this conclusion.
It’s all about the honey-do list.
Seriously? Men hate honey-do lists. They sit on the couch for six months saying they’ll “get to it.” Ha.
So I’ll let ya in on my covert formula: create that list with care… Wait! Hang with me. Stop and clear your head. Ready? Now, think… what does he really enjoy (other than sex – that’s a given). My guy – he likes to shop, travel, eat, drink, take long grueling bike rides, talk, watch dark complicated TV shows, dissolve into silly laughter. So there you have it: that’s his honey-do list. As long as I stick to that list, he doesn’t mind me asking – in fact he jumps to do his chores. Works every time.
Example: during last night’s dinnertime honey-do conversation (not that he’s aware we’re executing his list), I blurt my theory out loud. He takes this all in with twinkling eyes. And… next thing ya know we’re researching and booking a 4-night trip to Tahoe in August.
Moral of the story: plan your honey-do list with care.
It goes by too quick. Life does.
I look into the face of my dear friend. In the hospital. (Apparently, it’s a recurring thing lately – these hospital visits.) He has aged. I have to admit when I look in the mirror – I have too. Dammit. And dammit that it took the alarm of the ICU to get me off my butt and by his side.
We share news of kids and grandkids (his) and great-grandkids (his again – yes I’m envious). Nearly four decades of communal history are in the room with us… like it all happened yesterday: crazy dangerous fun, laughter, pain, loss.
He says he doesn’t want to grow old. This scares me. So I ask him, “But if your quality of life is good, old is good, right?” I can’t bear losing him.
But I don’t think I’ll lose him any time soon. He’s a tough bird, “older than dirt” according to his estimations.
He’s side-stepped doctor recommendations for a good long while now, hence ICU and the once-again stay in the hospital. This time they’ll be keeping him for a while – in the pulmonary rehabilitation wing. The fun of youth catches up.
(Seriously!? Are we allotted just some quota of over-the-top living!?! I suppose there’s no rhyme or reason to the life and death cycle TIMING thing but it’s REALLY hard to not contemplate and wonder if there is some allowance-of-fun-score-keeping device that pulls the plug on us through death or discomfort.) Sigh… Enough ranting.
I wish you comfort, my friend.
And LOTS of old age that we can share together.
I love you, Claud Wayne.
A MOMENT BETWEEN RAINS
Threads curly-Q ribbons ‘tween and above toes.
Feet rejoice in earth,
Assure my psyche of roots in eternal soil.
Ears drink bird-cries of joy.
Eyes chew on nature’s early fall blush below threatening skies.
Distance passes beneath churning legs,
Lungs fueled by moist healing air.
I pull my heel out of an unseen crawdad den
And say a silent apology to its unsuspecting resident.
I head for home,
Back to today.
But better than I was…
Renewed of spirit, energy, creativity.
In a moment between rains.
Steam floats, surrounds with dawn,
Clear blue frames greens
sharp tipped, round, sap – drip, drip,
greens lime & iridescent,
greens deep, dark, black…
Shadows sharp as a briar’s sting
no smudge of summer
too soon here…
Laughter of friends, family
Cocoon of love, harmony
Thank you, Life
Last night my daughter, Rachel, three of her lifelong friends – Chris, Jesse, Mel – and I played dominoes and acted silly while drinking way too much… and then we drank more. I’m not sure we ever finished a single game, and if we did I have no idea who won.
Then we cried in memory of loved ones we’ve lost much earlier than death should have had the right to claim them.
It was one of those evenings that was relayed by my hippocampus into its forever and ever safe-storage in my cranium.
Rach and I crashed in the guest room, her bulldog Suri bedding down between my legs pinning me to the mattress. But who cares when you’re that inebriated?
At some point in the middle of the night, my body revolted and sent me to the porcelain throne, no doubt the only reason I was able to wobble into work this morning.
After washing my face and brushing my gnarly teeth and tongue, my incredible man made sweet love to me… completing this perfect memory.
The last thing I remember before the sandman visited was giggling and saying, “I guess I never grew up.”
And I hope I never do.
North Texas is scorched; the last substantial rain we had in the Dallas/Ft Worth metroplex was Tuesday, May 24.
It was a fun day for my boyfriend and me. The Texas Rangers hosted the Chicago White Sox, and we accepted an invite to watch from a suite at the Ballpark in Arlington.
Strange strains of luck seem to follow Ken and me any time we travel or plan outings, that evening being no exception; the heavens opened for the last time this summer and chased us out of the Ballpark. We left, thankfully, when the game was suspended… a three hour delay to see the Rangers lose at 1:30am is not one of my favorite things. Continue reading