Its snowing hard, horizontally. Early January of the new year 2015. Just back from the Maine coast three weeks ago and I wish I could go back… now. I came home to the inevitable death and dying and sickness that people my age start to see and feel more often. I just didn’t expect so many to have gone or starting their path to blackness. The fella that does my excavation-cancer at 65, the jolly guy who I counted on to repair my tractor-murdered at 65 by his son-in-law, a friend who was a union rep. With the UAW, heart attack at 66. But the very saddest and most painful was learning that my first wife (I’ve only had two), is dying from lung cancer. My grown sons qrer tending to her and taking care of the business of death and for that I am proud and grateful. Even though its been 30 years, I still feel I should be there, doing something… just being there. But it would be awkward for my sons and her family because our separation and divorce was a mess. And wounds like that only help on the surface…a scar. But under the wrenching pain still smolders and sometimes burns.
This thing about people I know dying is a new thing for me. The only person in my family that has passed on in my years was my mother, but we were never close and the hurt wasn’t very hurtful.
I want to pray but resist the urge because I know that payers are for the living, more to console those left behind than to hasten the dead on their journey to heaven and of course, to hopefully ensure they don’t go to hell.
I’m cold now. I’m cold more often than not these days. I always wondered why old people wore sweaters during the get of summer. Now I know… they were fucking cold.