Monday, August 01, 2011

I wish I could grieve for you.
Fifty plus years of widowhood, borne with cheer. And duty, and devotion, patience and all the extolled virtues, but I’m not sure what it did to you as a person, to your core. That person we’d see sometimes, irrepressible bits would pop out, and the once-singer would warble a tune, the once-theater performer would deliver a line with aplomb.
Unsteady on your feet, your bones brittle with two decades of steroid and thyroid medicine, you'd restricted your interactions with the outside world. Your hand would tremble, you’d given up writing, and your signature was a scrawl.And yes, the frequent falls. Yet every time I’d drop in, you’d regale me with laughter and a tale or two, and I’d scour your kitchen the way I used to when I was a broke student.
I often left angry, seeing in your tale a reflection of my life and possibly, fate, and determined to will it otherwise.
Let this memory be your last bequest to me.

5 comments:

Verna Wilder said...

Your first line broke my heart.

Seven words and I feel flayed.

Thank you for being a writer.

Alien said...

Touched by the words....

AmitL said...

Very touching.Sigh!!And life moves on.

norrbu said...

scary - but how does one avoid such a life.

Beth said...

We all teach, intentionally or not. Powerful writing.