an abandoned life

An abandoned life doesn't vanish whole.  It sloughs off, piece by piece. 


Eating, for example.  Alone is the new normal, but that doesn't always stop me from buying sunflower seeds in quantity sufficient to feed the avian stars of "The Birds," or oats enough for a stable of athletic polo ponies.  But I pretend it works.  Jars of roasted seeds and oats transformed into my maple granola can radiate abundance as much as stupidity.


Repairs, too.  I still expect Rich will do it.  Out of eight overhead lights, all requiring a ladder and a gymnast's skills to reach, three have gone dark.  Maybe, when I reach the halfway mark, I will get motivated.  Or go to sleep earlier -- that's fine, too.  


But these are small matters.  What is vanishing is Rich himself, an amazing possibility that startles my mind.  How can 10 months apart swallow 37 years together?  Unless one of the places where he has gone is me.  That could explain the abundance that someday will devour the stupidity and the pain and the life abandoned.


Candace