Similitude and adoration seem felicitous ingredients for relationship; yet not in all cases.
We were both bonded to our mothers. Hers died young from breast cancer. Which is her inheritance now.
Mine went through several medical crisis that threaten the tenuous adapting I'd gone through with my mother. The first, at six, newly reunited after a year's family separation, my sister was born. Everything began to skew from that epoch.
Her father was emotionally distant, as mine, for similar reasons; it was the model of their fathers to be so. Pleading silent incompetence leaving child rearing to the mothers. Adored of course, the mothers were our first experience of god like love and dependance.
Both had tragic childhoods explaining much of our relationship now. Perhaps ending too soon for us; yet prized the moments together, our love is unusual; two solitaries, we probably will never marry.
Her keeping on keeping is a daily concern for me. Frantic as the time mom was cut in half for gall stones removal. Yet she is no mother to me more nearly an older sister if you will, or must, title or define.
Our love seems at this remove -- oh yes! Its not Sunday and we won't have lunch tomorrow. She has an appointment with the surgeon dealing with her cancerous breasts. As she is, she's more like her father to me? I love her yet my love seems to roll off her in distrust. Curious isn't it to know her so well assembling the pieces of our puzzle in a pleasing, or at least manageable, picture in a time of persistent stress. My crisis sailed thru minus one testicle; the pathology report benign.
Last lunch. Last goodbye. At our age last things are preeminent. Sloughing off of prized possessions identifying our lives apart and together. Ourselves in preparation for the dawn when one of us will not witness it or show up for water aerobics: three times a week. The exception being an Advent/Thanksgiving event celebrating turkey day, her birth day the next longest day after winter solstice, then Christmas. A gathering of friends and family; fabulous. In times past she would leave for California to visit her son and other family and friends returning to water aerobics some time around Epiphany. Christmas' Twelfth and last Day. Always agony for me my son died 10 December thirty-five years ago at age ten. His sister preceding him a few years before at 18 months.
Blanched with pain, older than I, laughing, smiling and scowling or simply being The Sphinx I adore. In all kinds, sorts and conditions. She will not give me permission to . . . with only one exception . . . publish her portraits by any effort of persuasion. And I love her because she is from first to last beautiful, kind and generous. Once proclaiming she must change venues from the hospital rehab to water aerobics due to pain. She added; "This won't be a divorce, we'll still meet for lunch . . . Of course I followed her making no difference to me where or how I rebuilt my stamina from which early on I'd decided to end my life so limited it had become. I've always been attracted to beautiful older women. She is all of that and more so much so.
Once a forensic psychologist for the State of California and in private practice there. Something she did not tell me until long after we'd become the best of friends. She saved my life. Then gave me a reason to have a life where before I'd had none whatsoever. Moving through the days from pillar to post and back again. So if you think of us, remember we are or were: Lovers of a certain age reborn; expecting to meet again in heaven with her husband and a wolf named Nazoni.
God bless and be well arrived from all your travels.
120925 19:03 similitude
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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