When you love someone you sort of lose track of what you’re
doing, how you’re doing it and why you’re doing it.
So like you go through the day and you get up and make coffee and cook breakfast—Fat Jack’s Bacon and Egg Sandwiches would be nice—and clean up and take a shower and get dressed and go do whatever it is you do like work on your LandCruiser and shovel the mud off the driveway and make lunch and clean up and do the living room floors and cook dinner and clean up and watch “Parenthood” and brush your teeth and go to bed and make love and go to sleep.
So like you go through the day and you get up and make coffee and cook breakfast—Fat Jack’s Bacon and Egg Sandwiches would be nice—and clean up and take a shower and get dressed and go do whatever it is you do like work on your LandCruiser and shovel the mud off the driveway and make lunch and clean up and do the living room floors and cook dinner and clean up and watch “Parenthood” and brush your teeth and go to bed and make love and go to sleep.
Then she dies. And you realize that everything you did, you
did for her, with her. Everything was about her, filtered through the reality
of her.
When you cook breakfast you turn to give a sandwich to her. When you get dressed you turn and ask her if you look ok. When you work on the Landcruiser you come in to tell her about it. Before you make lunch you turn to ask her if she wants some. You holler for her to come look at the clean driveway and living room floors. Make dinner for her and turn to her to laugh or cry about “Parenthood.” But she isn’t there. You go to bed and you’re alone. So very alone. And there is no more love-making.
When you cook breakfast you turn to give a sandwich to her. When you get dressed you turn and ask her if you look ok. When you work on the Landcruiser you come in to tell her about it. Before you make lunch you turn to ask her if she wants some. You holler for her to come look at the clean driveway and living room floors. Make dinner for her and turn to her to laugh or cry about “Parenthood.” But she isn’t there. You go to bed and you’re alone. So very alone. And there is no more love-making.
But you’re not dead. You act like it but you’re not. So you
go through the motions, adjust your actions to the new, hateful reality. Mostly
you just sit, both figuratively and literally. You don’t do the floors. The
Landcruiser patiently waits and quietly rusts. Friends wonder where you’ve
been. You travel a lot because it’s easier when you’re not at home.
So then, as the universe is so very good at doing, something
happens. You meet someone. Zeezzzitt! Sparks fly. You thought you were old and
ugly and saggy and sad, she thinks you’re cute. Pow! You’re back.
It doesn’t exactly work out, but it doesn’t exactly not work out either. Which proves that while the universe does stuff for you, it also has a rather wicked sense of humor.
Wait and see. This is a strange and wonderful place, this world. It never gets old, living here.
It doesn’t exactly work out, but it doesn’t exactly not work out either. Which proves that while the universe does stuff for you, it also has a rather wicked sense of humor.
Wait and see. This is a strange and wonderful place, this world. It never gets old, living here.
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So do you agree with my view of the universe?
Yes? That is odd.