How did you get here before me, Bette?

My ethereal nature?

Ah, that must be it.

Look at the sky, John.

Yes, blue and beautiful.

And the leafless branches, sad?

I used to think so, Bette.

Now?

Part of the circle, no?

Yes, my love.

Spring is around the corner.

Yes, my love.

I’m hungry, Bette.

Good.

I’ll go now and grab some breakfast.

Please, John.

Eager to be rid of me?

For now, yes.

And later, Bette?

We’ll have an eternity.

*

Enjoy https://youtu.be/R2RNK1hKd1U

Feb 19 2921

Call me a slow learner but I just came upon ‘eat’ in Create and Death. On saying this I can see Bette smiling and thinking this should be fun for a little while.

“You are not that slow a learner, dear.”

“I mean it Hon. It’s odd is it not?”

“I give you that, John. Now what concerns me is how long you’ll go on about it.”

“And what do you have to do that is so important you question how much time I give it. Anyway aren’t these the little kernels of life’s mystery I can deliver that you bought into?”

“Yes my love but I’m not sure this (same letters in a word) qualify.”

“Well leave that up to me. Can I warm up your coffee?”

“Please and I’ll have toast and a bowl of rice krispies also.”

“I see what you’re doing, Bette. You are taking advantage and who can blame you for having to sit through this gibberish.”

“Ah sweetheart, you’re being too hard on yourself. No way do I consider any of your preoccupations with language’s minutiae gibberish; a bit misguided maybe but that’s all.”

“I can live with that, I guess.”

“I’m still waiting on my breakfast.”

“Oh, sorry. Here you go, my lady.’

“Thank you kind sir.”

“Now to create. Create has ‘eat’ in its spelling and eat is about sustaining life. After all the creator would not create something that did not eat. So it is about the present and being alive. Now to death. Death on the other hand is about the past and I’d venture to say it is the opening chords of the past. We do not eat in death and yet there it is; death. Yes I see you’re almost done with the breakfast, boy you eat fast.”

“Wanted you to have all my attention when you get to the…sorry you know what I mean.”

“Yeah the winding down well don’t worry I’m there. In order for death to be true to its tense there has to be a change in letter placement and that change would constitute ‘ate’ as in Bette just ate that breakfast. And what I like about ‘eat’ being in the required spelling for death is that ‘eat’ asks more of death than ‘ate’. So death is not only the maestro of the past but also conducting lively notes and the select audience is privileged to listen in a place where the acoustics are celestial. That’s it I’m done. You can go about your day now. I hope I didn’t bore you.”

“You never bore my love. After I met you it didn’t take long to know that boring wasn’t in our future.”

“I’ll say the same for you. Where you off to now?”

“Well considering I ate, it’s time for me to move on. Things to do and all that.”

“Want some company?”

“No that’s okay. You stay here; you have things to do.”

“Not really. I’d rather be with you.”

“Not now, later. I’ll be back later.”

“Okay. Have I told you lately I love you?”

“Not lately.”

“Well I do.”

“Right back at you sweetheart. Bye.”

“Bye love.”

Love To You All

During Bette’s last, of three, hospitalization several doctors said over the course of the five weeks,

“Your wife is very sick.”

I said.

“I know. The previous two hospitalizations she was very sick. She rallied. Bette came home.”

About a week before Bette passed away it was said again and for the last time.

[What I am writing now is in brackets because the words weren’t spoken. In my mind I said ‘You don’t have to stare because that would be awkward but even a brief look into my eyes and you can see the child glad to have left behind the home bound despondent middle aged man to go outside with fervor and play with my girl, Bette. We played for eighteen years with no one having to call us in until now. And you think I have the courage to ask why; to ask if it’s because she is dying? I don’t.’]

Three days before Bette passed away ‘palliative care’ was brought up. It was too late. Bette’s mind was compromised and to tell her she was dying would have been cruelty reserved for abject evil. On the second day she lost consciousness and remained that way.

The first anniversary of Bette’s death will be in a couple days and I continue to wonder about death bed conversations and would we have made them ‘work’? I believe so. Of course so many words floating in a well of tears eager to be saved and placed on fertile soil where they will take root, grow and nurture my soul.

It never happened and the words of imagination drown without my Dearest Bette to have spoken them.

 

The night is young and I am old.

Blissful slumber awaits with forked tongue and to bed I must go I am told.

Enya does not usually sleep at the foot of the bed and tonight she did.

Tammy didn’t stray from her routine of coming up to the pillow, falling asleep in a curl against my arm and scarfing my neck with her furry tail.

The next thing I know is both girls are in carriers and I’m smiling (to not alarm them) and repeatedly saying “good girls, good girls” while the animal rescue volunteer assures me a home will be found for them and not to worry about them being ‘put down’. I made sure they had their favorite dish of food as I took my leave and Tammy chowed down as I knew she would and sure enough Enya being older and wiser did not let go my look and my knee buckled as I backed away.

The next thing I know is I’m in Bette’s apartment and we’re side by side on her sofa. Our relationship is a few months old. My heart and mind are overwhelmed and melt at the thought of what is to come; years of love and happiness and the very rare “you and what army?”.

The next thing I know is I’m at Mom and Dad’s grave site. They loved Bette and one of the last things Mom said to her was “Our son is very lucky to have found you” That meant the world to Bette. I stand there and pray to be forgiven though I’m not sure why.

The next thing I know is the patio furniture that was gone is back and a framed picture of Bette is on the table. Her favorite house dress is draped over the back of the chair opposite me. It’s after midnight and not a cloud to caress the moon. I see the nearly empty bottle of bourbon and my mind stumbles to catch up with that reality. Our beloved stray feral is in the corner munching on dry food that wasn’t there a moment ago. The thought of bringing Bette to life will hurt I know but I will bear it considering it will be the last time. And there she is laughing at something I said and enjoying the pizza.

“What is that?” she asks.

“Don’t ask. A few more laughs, what do you say?”  I plead.

“John honey, please God, no.” she implores.

“You don’t have a say and I told you not to look.” I say with slightly raised voice.

“It will be a year soon and I know it’s hard but you’re managing and the girls are doing well under your love and care.” she says with concern in her voice.

She left. I told her to go. And anyway I’m not sure she gets it, after all I’m the one left behind to Grieve. No one knows what that’s about not even if you’ve been there because your ‘there’ is not my ‘there’. We who grieve share the sadness but not what makes us sad.

Bette and I had wonderful exchanges; free flow of ideas and emotion.

I deplore impediments.

Cut. Release. Flow. A short lived mantra as the light brown table darkened.

The next thing I know is Tammy’s twelve pound body is pressing against my arm and in the alcove of my mind reserved for Bette I hear a faint “There, there. There, there.”

It is dawn and I suspect proof of God’s infinite capacity for love is to be found in the canyons of Grief.

Love To You All

It is no use asking You how You are because You are me and I am You and I am not doing well so I imagine the same is with You.

I cry every night and pray Your Son will soon bring me to our beloved.

I think of You being the Host to the loved ones who are no longer with me and I know their happiness is beyond my comprehension. I envy them.

My fellow beings talk about how natural it is to grieve the loss of a loved one. And yet The Creator in guiding our evolution of consciousness has seen to a response of intractable resistance to a life of quality after she is gone. How natural is it that grief may ask more than we can give and in the giving succumb to a shadow of our self?

You know 64 years and I’m still not sure Original Sin is reason enough to demand a death sentence. Just thought I would give my opinion on that for what it’s worth.

Hey! You sure Bette and I got the right script? The curtain comes down too damn early!

Why does death render us dumb not as in stupid though one can feel quite inadequate in wrapping your mind around what just occurred but in having little voice in speaking to the unbearable grief.

You know my Dear Fellow or Madam there is no moving on. For the time I had with Bette there is no parallel or surpassing. I am beautifully, wonderfully, and happily stuck in the moment.

It is hard writing to an entity especially when it is accepted by many that ‘said’ entity knows what you’re going to write before you write it. Be that as it may. A thought came to mind as I sat on the couch with legs crossed at the ankles. I was sitting for an hour before this thought came along and I’m grateful I was able to go that long without a significant thought. Then I thought I thought this thought before and thought I was in good Company. Here is the thought: There is so much written about You and at 64 years of age I’ve read just the tiniest fraction. What I find curious is I end up on a road of fear and no one bothered to give me a map so I could be guided by choice. How or why is it that many are more interested in the ‘how’ of things and less the ‘why’? It could be that most of us leave the ‘why’ to You like good creatures and pursue the ‘how’ in order to make something of this life. There are some current thinkers, held in high regard, who say philosophy is dead; I think they are on to something. I’m surprised it took this long seeing how every life succumbs to death and the loved ones have only grief to make sense of it.

I’m sure I’ll write again and I’d be honored if You’d give Bette my love.

 

There are a few parks in my neighborhood and on this day I went to the one Bette and I loved.

A song came on the radio titled “Call Me Al” by Paul Simon. “If you’ll be my bodyguard…I can call you Betty” are lyrics in the refrain.

I needed to hear that and thanked my Bette.

I turned off the radio, shed a few tears and took a sip of coffee.

Bette communicates through song, as you know, and before leaving the park I turned on the radio and sure enough a familiar song was there but my clever girl had it sent by way of the original composer and Rachmaninoff did not write lyrics to the third movement of his 2nd Symphony. The song I’m referring to is “Never Gonna Fall In Love Again” Eric Carmen.

Over the years Bette and I listened to the symphony a number of times and I have lacked the courage to play the CD since she passed away. That third movement of the symphony is so damn beautiful, romantic and melancholy; and We loved it.

I didn’t turn off the radio; what I did do was take my composition book and pen a few words that Rachmaninoff and Bette inspired.

How many grieving men and women are alone in their car, on a bench or taking a walk in a park somewhere in the world crying their eyes out because the love of their life has passed away.

How they long for the body they can’t embrace, the hand not to be held, the eyes no longer to get lost in.

I can only pray that we who suffer and lie awake at night will continue to meet the sunrises and they will bring us closer to our immortal love and we take solace in knowing grief will give way to eternal bliss.

Love To You All

 

It is closed.

There is no lock.

I am accompanied by history and the past acknowledges its presence.

Another day.

I am accompanied by curiosity and not let that get the better of me.

Another day.

I am accompanied by impulse and know that would be an insult to Bette and everyone I hold dear.

Another  day.

I am accompanied by measured thought and gratefully the distance is too great.

Another day.

I am accompanied by despair and palm wet with tears would fail to open.

Another day.

I am accompanied by faith and pray it gain in strength.

Another day.

I am accompanied by Grief. The desire to open the door is overwhelming. I don’t feel any constraint. The moment is quiet. I look around. I am alone.

I say, “After all this time.”

Grief says, “What do you want from me? We sit side by side; you hardly talk. You are not taking care of yourself. You can’t deny you don’t think about it.”

I say, “Yeah but it wouldn’t be right; you know that.”

Grief says, “Yes, of course. The thing is it can happen by default and that shouldn’t be. You know all this; why do I have to say it.”

I say, “You don’t and I’m sorry you did. I’ll go now.”

Love says, “Why leave now? I can open the door.”

I say, “What happened to Grief ?”

Love says, “She is here. We are one.”

I say, ” Yes, please open the door.”

I step over the threshold. The ground is solid. No falling into an abyss. It is starless, moonless dark. I’m unwilling to move further. No, I am scared to move. Time has abandoned me. I feel something in the palm of my hand. I gently close my fingers around it and know it is paper. I reach back for the frame and step out of the dark. I unfold the paper.

Dearest John

What the heck are you doing? We’ve been through this. Your time has not yet come. Let it be of no consequence that mine has. I should rephrase that. Grief is the consequence and should know better than to bring you this close to the door. That pitch black is there for a reason and thank you know Who. It does give one pause literally and figuratively. Take comfort in knowing you have the best of both worlds-me in one and you in the other. Why disturb the arrangement? It is temporary enough. You leave me no choice but to quote an excerpt from a story you wrote five years ago. I remember saying “How sad; but damn I like it.” And you know I wasn’t one for melancholy writing. So here it is, love and oddly it involves a piece of paper.

My Dearest,

I suspect we are alone and the wake is over. Are you afraid? Are you drunk? Are you thinking of killing yourself? I knew I had to write this, my love. I wrote it a couple months ago and involved Sean in the clandestine operation. We all three know what a thick headed Irishman you are and nothing short of this letter might prevent an unwise decision.

During a visit I had with Sean we talked of you and how you would get on after my passing. He expressed real concern that you might feel suicide was the only option, oblivious to all others. I wasn’t as concerned but took his very seriously. I thought of a letter and leaving it for you with Sean’s help. I knew you would take my hand one last time and you would discover the paper.

You remember the stories of my cheerleading and my feeling of oneness with the team and fans? Dear Leo let me be your cheerleader and inspire you to ‘get game’.

Even if all you are doing now are the motions, eventually meaning will be acquired. I want you to give yourself that chance. I know what your future holds, we talked about it. And though we saw ahead with the two of us there, I ask you to be there for me.

I have another mission for you, Leo, and I insist you carry it out. I want you to take a leave of absence from work for the next few months. Take the insurance money and run. I know you wouldn’t let me talk about this earlier but I’m saying it now. Do some of the things we talked about doing together. Go to Europe and pay our respects to the artists that have had such an influence on us and cap off some evenings with a pint or two; raising a glass to the two of us.

All the profoundness of my being insists on your staying alive. I loved all the time we had together. I loved discovering your face and its’ lines, your eyes and their irrepressible steadfastness. Your voice is comfort. Your ability to connect with people is a skill to be treasured. Since the diagnosis my awareness of you has intensified and I believe my life will be diminished if, in my death, the world loses you.

As you know I have always tried to live life to the fullest. Remember how we talked about dying giving life meaning; well let’s hope my death leads you not astray. Let me quote Shakespeare and remind you death has no respect for a usurper.

“…there’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he leaves what is’t to leave betimes?”

Oh, my love; be ready when your time comes, but not a second before. This is not the time to let pain and sorrow dictate your actions. Tell the people you come to know and call friend of our love and let them come to know me. I want the young people in your life to know ‘us’. I want to live in you. To die once is enough.

I remain faithfully yours, my beloved Irishman

I Love You

Even the thought of losing Bette had me in Grief’s shadow.

Love To You All

 

The dream came in early Sunday morning.

Bette and I were in a kitchen with unfamiliar surroundings.

I felt drawn to her but hesitated briefly.

I didn’t want to let go again.

The dream was no longer mine.

Bette had come to say hello and bring a gift.

If we were on stage it would have gone dark save for the spotlight of a soft hue.

The feeling of being one with Bette was so strong I lost all sense of self.

Asked if I had a care in the world I would have said none and all because of her radiant smile.

Our tearful eyes locked

We ended our gaze with a kiss that generated warmth and a hint of God’s love; her gift to me.

I remember embracing her and the choice of letting go not ours.

Love To You All