Category Archives: Death

Mr. Doofus

Mr. Doofus

In the years before everything changed, Greg knew that someday he would send his last message, speak his last words, and enjoy a sunset. One day, someone would speak his name for the last time. Finality brings focus. When a cup of coffee potentially becomes your last, the sips are dark and delicious, and even a drop wasted brings regret.

It was all theoretical until the doctor uncomfortably leaned forward and adjusted his tie. Even after years of practice, he hadn’t acquired the ability to tell someone that they would soon be defined by a dash between dates. “It’s everywhere. The exploratory surgery confirmed it.”

Greg asked the only question he could think of.

“I’d say two months. I’m so sorry,” the doctor answered.

Greg’s days were truly numbered.

After leaving the doctor’s office, he drove home. Instead of going inside, he walked across the railroad tracks. He meandered through the abandoned industrial district that once fueled the small town. He’d seen it all dozens of times. This time, however, he paid attention to every detail.

Greg stopped near an abandoned building that once held dozens of workers. The sign that once displayed the name of a thriving company was now rusted and faded. It was a relic now, succumbing to time. When Greg was young, the place was buzzing with life. Now, it slowly rusted and constantly sought ways to disintegrate.

“I thought I had more time. I thought I could take back all the ways I insisted I was right. In faith, in action, and words.” He didn’t know why he said it aloud.

The trees above him didn’t acknowledge him like he expected. They rebuffed his excessive self-reflection. For once, he stood under them and let the breeze wash over him.

The abandoned cat chose that moment to make his appearance and introduction. He poked through between bent pieces of galvanized metal, probably after hearing Greg’s voice.

Greg didn’t have time to react as the scruffy grey cat ran over to him, meowed, and then forcefully rubbed against the back of his leg. Bending down, he rubbed the cat’s head as it arched its back to meet his fingers. The cat’s fur was messy and tangled in a few places.

As Greg ran his fingers along the cat’s back, he felt a scar that traversed at least four inches of the cat’s back. Pushing the fur aside, he could see that the jagged scar was long-healed, even though the cat didn’t appear to be very old.

The cat meandered behind him as Greg walked home. Greg walked slowly, appreciating the leaves, the fading sun, and his collection of memories. He stopped at the railroad tracks, staring in each direction as the tracks stretched away from him.

“I’ve got a scar like that too,” Greg told the cat as it peered up at him and rubbed his leg. Greg’s scar was only a few months old. He caught himself touching it lightly through his shirt several times a day. The surgery that could have lasted three hours took only fifteen minutes before the surgeon closed him back up.

“Go home, doofus,” Greg said as he turned to rub the cat’s head one last time.

Greg avoided looking back at the cat as he neared his house. Taking his keys from his pocket, he turned. The cat sat directly behind him, looking up.

Greg opened the door and held it open. The cat meowed and walked inside as Greg shook his head.

“Just for a minute, okay? I can’t give you a permanent home.”

He watched as the cat ran to the couch, jumped up to the edge, and watched him.

When Greg reached for the cat to pet it, it hunkered down slightly and then jumped. Greg caught him as the cat arched up and nuzzled under his chin. Greg laughed as the cat’s whiskers rubbed against his face.

“Let’s see what I can find to give you to eat, Mr. Doofus.” Greg finally bent down to let the cat sit on the floor and look up at him.

Within a couple of minutes, Greg placed a small plate of tuna on the floor. “Your dinner is served,” Greg said.

Mr. Doofus meowed a loud thank-you and began eating the tuna noisily.

Greg placed a bowl of water next to the kitchen table. Mr. Doofus slowly walked over to the bowl and began drinking.

After heating up a microwave meal, Greg picked up his small tray and turned to the living room.

Mr. Doofus jumped up in the middle of the couch, turned, and faced the TV.

Greg sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. News wouldn’t hold his interest. It mattered only when you thought you might be around to see how everything worked out.

Mr. Doofus climbed onto Greg’s lap and curled up, purring loudly. Greg ate a few bites of his meal before pushing it across the coffee table. Instead of paying attention to the TV, Greg rubbed his hands along Mr. Doofus until he was purring like a jet engine.

For the first night in weeks, Greg slept soundly, despite sprawling out on the uncomfortable couch. He didn’t remember falling asleep, nor that Mr. Doofus had curled up next to him.

The next morning, Greg sat up, certain that he would be stiff and sore from sleeping on the couch. Instead, he felt like his old self.

Mr. Doofus rubbed his head along Greg’s leg until he jumped down and walked over to the door to paw at it.

“Gotta go to the bathroom?”

Greg opened the door as the cat meandered out. It didn’t even occur to Greg that his new friend might not return. He left the door open.

By the time Greg had finished his coffee, brushed his teeth, and decided he needed to go to the store to get Mr. Doofus some supplies, Mr. Doofus popped back inside, meowing loudly to announce his presence.

The cat ran across to jump up on the couch as Greg’s fingers rubbed along his fur.

“Keep an eye on things for me. I’ll be back in thirty, okay?”

Mr. Doofus jumped down and walked over to the window. He jumped up and sat on the sill, licking his paw before running it smoothly across the top of his head.

Greg made it back home in forty-five minutes. He set up the litter box and put out the special decorated bowls for his new friend. Opening the bag of special cat food, he poured it into the bowl.

“I picked this out because the cat on the bag looks like you,” Greg told Mr. Doofus, who was already eating from the new bowl.

Greg turned on the TV and pulled out his phone. Mr. Doofus jumped up onto his lap and spread across him as Greg petted him.

“I’ll be back Monday,” Greg said, after his manager answered.

“That’s great news! So you’re doing okay? We were worried.” Greg’s manager sounded relieved.

“Yes, everything’s okay now.”

Mr. Doofus peered up at Greg as he finished the call.

“What? I’m fine. I’m just not going to be around as long as I thought. None of us is.”

Mr. Doofus seemed unconvinced, but settled back down when Greg ran his hand all the way down his back to the end of his tail.

When Greg got up to make another coffee and then went outside, the cat followed him and sat next to his left leg, rubbing and purring.

Over the next eleven months, Greg fell into a routine, including this new friend in everything he did. He wasted a lot of money buying the cat toys until one day he accidentally dropped an empty toilet paper roll on the bathroom floor. Mr. Doofus growled and attacked it. He spent the next ten minutes fighting it to the death. Soon after, Greg came home from work with multiple empty rolls that people had saved for him. He didn’t mind cleaning up the shredded cardboard because it was the only thing that reminded Mr. Doofus that he had once been wild.

The day finally came when he knew he had to put aside the veneer of privacy and talk to his neighbor Jane. She lived across the street and two houses down. They had greeted each other more than once, but never had a real conversation. Greg knew that she was a single mom and had struggled financially for a long time. Just looking at her car, it was obvious that crossed fingers probably kept it intact.

Jane took a bit to answer the door. She left the storm door closed as she smiled. Greg didn’t blame her for being cautious.

“Jane, I’m sorry to bother you, but if you have a few minutes, I would like to talk to you.”

Jane pushed the store door open and almost stepped out. She looked at Greg strangely and then pushed it out and held it open.

“Come on in. I’m making supper, if you don’t mind me doing that while we talk.”

As Greg stepped inside, the aroma of whatever she was making assaulted him. Hunger had mostly become a thing of the past, but the smell made his stomach growl.

Jane walked into the kitchen as Greg followed her. He stopped by the kitchen table as Jane stirred marinara on the stove top.

When Greg hesitated, Jane smiled. “Don’t be nervous. Unless you’re asking me for money.”

“I don’t know how to tell you all this. I apologize in advance for hitting you with it.”

Jane’s face changed as she listened. The smile became flat.

“No, it’s not anything bad or about you,” Greg said. “You know I don’t have any family left, right?”

Jane nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Sixty years taught me it’s the way life is. And the last year definitely reminded me. Anyway, I’m not going to be around much longer.”

Jane grimaced. Greg could see her recoil instinctively.

“I’ve lived longer than the doctor said I would. But now it’s time to face facts. I don’t know you at all, really, but if you agree, I’d like to make you an offer.”

“Oh?” It was easy to see that Jane was confused and probably a little worried because she had no context.

“Because I have no family, I want to give you my house, my car, and everything else left over.”

Jane’s face went through a series of contortions as she tried to catch up to what Greg had said.

“Give me your house? But you don’t know me!”

“I know. But I know you’re renting this house. And I know it’s a struggle as a mom with a 10-year-old boy.”

“So you want to just give me your house? What’s the catch? I’m sorry for being cynical. There has to be one.”

Greg shook his head. “There is. I want you to let my cat, Mr. Doofus, live in the house with you once I’m gone. That’s it. I think I’m only still alive because he adopted me a while back, at the exact moment I needed him.”

Jane’s eyes widened as she studied Greg’s face. In the thirty-eight years she had lived, she had learned to trust her instincts. Her gut told her Greg was telling the truth.

Her eyes welled up with tears as she continued to stare at Greg.

“I will need some more details from you, but I’m going to take care of everything so that I can make sure you don’t have to do anything or pay any legal bills.”

Jane turned awkwardly, turned off the stove burner, and moved the pan. She moved to the table, pulled the chair away from it, and sat down. As Greg watched, she put her face between her hands and sobbed.

Because he didn’t know her well, he waited silently. It took Jane a bit before she raised her head and wiped her eyes with her hands.

“Are you sure? There’s no one else?”

Greg shook his head. “Don’t be sad for me. Think of it as karma from the universe. I didn’t do anything to deserve the tumor that grew inside of me for a year before I knew it was there. But you deserve a chance, and I can give it to you. A place for your son to finish growing up and a place that’s yours. I’m going to get a new car and put the title in both of our names. It will be yours too, along with any money I have left over.”

“I’m so sorry, Greg. Jesus, I don’t know what to say. Last week I almost couldn’t make rent, and now you’re telling me you’re just giving me your house.”

Greg smiled. He instinctively knew that she was coming around to the idea.

“And yes, I will adopt Mr. Doofus and keep him for as long as he lives.” Jane wiped her eyes again. “I would have a pet, but I’d have to pay another deposit.”

Greg pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and flattened it. He put it on the table near Jane.

“Fill in these details tonight, if you don’t mind. You can put it on my door if you’d like. I have the day off tomorrow, and I’m going to meet my lawyer.”

Jane pushed back from the table, stood up, and took three steps before throwing her hands around Greg and hugging him.

“I am so sorry, Greg. Please don’t fault me for maybe looking happy. I’m sad for you.”

Greg tentatively put his arms around Jane and squeezed her.

When she stepped back, he smiled.

“I promise you I’m okay. I’ll let you finish dinner. I know your son’s coming home soon. Enjoy your evening, okay?”

Jane nodded, but didn’t reply. Greg knew that she was about to burst into tears. Had he told her she would probably end up with $200,000, she might have completely lost control.

When Greg went inside his house, Mr. Doofus meowed loudly until he sat on the floor and playfully wrestled with him. He ignored the pain running across his sides.

“You’re going to get a new friend to take care of you,” Gred said. Mr. Doofus stopped playfully biting at Greg’s fingers as he looked up. “Thank you for finding me, you little doofus.”

Mr. Doofus grabbed Greg’s right hand with his paws and resumed nipping at him with his teeth. Greg laughed and forgot about everything for a while.

A few weeks later, Maple Street became lined with colorful red, yellow, and orange leaves. The blue house with the blue door filled the air with competing colors. Inside, Jane sat on the couch. Her son Jefferson playfully tossed a cardboard roll to Mr. Doofus as he sat on the windowsill. Catching it in his paws, he attacked it. Little pieces of cardboard floated to the floor below. Jane shook her head, knowing that she would dutifully sweep it up later, once Mr. Doofus had vanquished the cardboard invader.

She thought of Greg almost every time she looked at Mr. Doofus. He wasn’t a cat at all. He was a timely angel, furry and loving. Had it not been for him, Greg wouldn’t have had enough time to come to terms with his death or his ability to help someone like her.

“Mom, is this really our house forever?” Her son Jefferson had asked her the same question a hundred times.

“No, it’s our home,” Jane said, smiling. “With our very own guardian angel.”

Mr. Doofus turned in a circle as he sat on the windowsill. He stared out the window as the leaves drifted to the ground.

October Surpries

“Sorry about all the dust,” he said.

The park crew was clearing brush and trees from the creekside end of Bluff Cemetery. We’ve been weeks without substantive rain. 

Because the amount of dust reminded me of an empty field before and after the crops of my youth, I told him, “A little grit in the heat never hurt anyone.” 

Because of the elevation of the cemetery and the exposed expanses of ground at the cemetery, the effect of the high wind carrying and eddying the dust and leaves was quite beautiful despite it covering me as I walked through it. 

It was shortly after noon during my visit. The sky looked like a summer sky even though the browning trees frowned at me for such a thought. 

I can’t visit a cemetery without viscerally feeling the irony of loving cemeteries for their history and emotional anchors, yet having always disliked the ritual of burial. 

I have several family members at Bluff. Several contemporaries and people I’ve known also dot the landscape.

After meandering, I took a photo of a random grave. Someday soon, I’ll use the information to find out more about the person using my research skills. It may seem foolish to some for me to do this. But every time I do it, I learn something. I like to think that a random stranger’s attention might float up into the after and ether and hit a hidden chord of memory in the universe. 

Before exiting the property, I pulled my car over and parked. I chose a tree along the periphery and did my best to climb it. My pocket was loaded with a length of wire and a beautiful prism. I left it hanging up there. In the days to come it will become more exposed as the tree gives way to November. 

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. 

The prism is a reminder that sunlight is not only the source of all life here on Earth, but also provides the only way we can experience beauty with our eyes.

No matter what your views are of the afterlife, many forget that we are supposed to squeeze life while we’re here. Some of us produce lemon juice and others nectar. 

We all breathe the same air and for different lengths of time.

PS I hope some of you got to enjoy the leaf tornadoes that seemed to be everywhere today.

Love, X

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Which?

The pendulum swings. 

And the prism dances from light to dark. 

Often, I’m not quite sure which cycle has overtaken me. 

Blessings are disguised as curse just as often as gifts or acquisition result in loss of time and energy.

Things visit us. Memories of people linger as long as we’re here to remember. 

Is it melancholy or recognition? 

Love, X

The Nostalgic Lessons of Horseradish

This post is partially personal and also a metaphor. Or analogy. Although I know the difference, I don’t care about grammatical accuracy. If this post is all over the place, you can thank me later for taking you around the world with my shotgun storytelling.

In 2005, I visited my brother north of Chicago. He brought out a giant bag of tortilla chips, one suited for his appetite. Then, he brought out high-quality horseradish and made a two-ingredient dip. Although I’m laughing when I write this, my brother Mike might have held me down with one of his giant paws of a hand and inserted a horseradish-laden tortilla chip into my mouth had I persisted in refusing to try it. I grabbed a chip and loaded it. My brother’s eyes widened, and he laughed like a hyena because he knew I would eat the whole bite. Though it burned, it was delicious!

“See, you dumb bastard? I told you you would like it. This ain’t the horseradish Aunt Ardith kept hidden in a side shelf.”

Although my brother was one of those people who thought he was always right, I had to give him credit for insisting I at least try horseradish. The worst that could have happened is that I still would have hated it.

All these years later, I think about that. He did the same thing with guacamole after I refused to have some freshly made guacamole at what used to be my favorite Mexican restaurant in Springdale. Guacamole was the equivalent of turkish delight from C.S. Lewis’ Narnia tales.

I am now a world class aficionado of pico de gallo. For too many years, I assumed I wouldn’t like it because my mom made me automatically distrust onions. Onions were the second component of her one-two punch of seasoning, which consisted of onions and cigarette ash. It was a story of culinary violence in the South, never knowing if the potato salad or mashed potatoes would have fantasy-level chunks of onions.

The above anecdotes hint at much of our problem. Because I was naive and poor, I was rarely exposed to a wide swath of food, much less quality. My cousin Jimmy’s house was the crucible of exposure to many foods. Because of my dad, Bobby Dean, almost literally making me eat food at gunpoint, some of my first exposures to some things were less than ideal. That’s putting it mildly. Some of the food at my house was the equivalent of the discarded version of what you would find behind a dollar store grocery aisle. That explained my aversion to morel mushrooms.

And also horseradish.

I don’t remember how old I was when I first tried horseradish. I remember the time that soured me on it. It turned out to be old and nasty by any standard. So, it’s no wonder my first exposure was the equivalent of eating a goose-poop-filled donut. I was lucky to have Aunt Ardith and Uncle Buck. Without them, my life would have been much worse in several ways. Visiting my cousin Jimmy always guaranteed that I’d be well-fed and get to try a variety of things. I like to joke about the horseradish because it was one of the few times that Aunt Ardith convinced me to try something exotic (to me). She had the best intentions, unlike my dad. If he got a hint of an idea that I didn’t like something, you can be sure that I’d be eating a bucket of it. Aunt Ardith and Uncle Buck did their best to tell Dad to jump off a cliff when he behaved that way around them.

We have parallel aversions to many things resulting from our initial exposure. Look at most relationships, and you can see that it’s true. You had your heart broken. You repay your future self by carrying the mistake and believing that all relationships will turn sour. Or you think most people grew up without the love and caring everyone needs. You carry your words into the future, and all the potential people you meet indirectly pay for the wound. You either avoid deep relationships or insist the system is rigged and broken. The concept of relationships isn’t the problem; it’s us. You’re letting your version of horseradish tarnish your future with other people.

Life is horseradish and guacamole.

Be open to new things.

Be aware that you may have blinded yourself or made truth from experiences that should not be extrapolated into cynicism or isolation.

Although it is true that people rarely fundamentally change, it is possible both in outlook and preference.

Changing is, in part, acknowledging that the things, habits, and ideas that once defined you no longer do.

Only healthy people change their minds and their lives.

PS During this crazy election, I’ve had a few laughs because of my brother. He’s been gone for four years. In his later life, one of his proclivities was to be a blowhard, much in the ilk of Bill O’Reilly. My job was to be the liberal and sentimental brother that drove him crazy. And as I was fond of telling him, the person left standing gets the last word. Since I bought gallon by the ink, he didn’t have the temperament to keep up with me. If he were still alive, he’d be pissed off at me constantly. But I miss it. Not the anger of the last few years; that period owes its shadows to alcohol and unresolved trauma. I miss the undeniable intelligence of my brother, even when he used it to wither my well-intentioned arguments. I absorb a lot of the election craziness and play a dialog in my head, one in which my brother is the one repeating conspiracy theories and horrible rhetoric. My brother taught me that if you can’t argue the facts, you pound the table. If that fails, flip the table.

PSS I chose a different picture for this post instead of one of my brother. Both pictures are of joy and of family time. Even though there was a backdrop of unease during both visits, each of the pictures reveals both youth and connection. In one, my niece Brittany charges toward me as I stand by a pond outside a cabin on King’s River. I got deathly ill from food poisoning on that visit, and Mike’s police K-9 got violently snakebit while we were all swimming in the river. Behind Brittany, as she runs, my deceased wife watches happily. The other picture from another visit is of my nephew Quinlan kicking my ass as the three of us wrestle like savages. I’d forgotten that their dog was watching from the doorway. The third picture is of me and my brother. Mike had his wife bought me a plane to ticket to visit them in Illinois. I love the picture despite the goofy look on my face. It documents my brother’s vibrancy in the “before” part of his life. Mike bought me tickets for two such trips, and his doing so proved that he loved me and also missed me. It was before the branching of his life; the picture captures what could have been the case for the rest of his life had he made that choice. My niece is a mother now, and when I think about the fleeting speed of life, I get a glimpse of the idea that nothing stands alone in our lives and that each moment unfolds from the previous one. We don’t see its unfolding or interconnectedness until later.

Love, X
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What Was Will Once Again Be (A story)

I looked across the bright blue tablecloth the staff used for decoration and practicality. Behind the older lady sitting uncomfortably slouched in a wheelchair across from me, attempting to eat between coughs, I saw him standing there.

When I looked over the lady’s shoulder, he hadn’t been there three seconds before. He was an older man dressed impeccably in a dark green suit. His eyes were wrinkled yet sparkling. The tall windows behind him didn’t seem to add any illumination to his profile. I could see the sun shining brilliantly down between the wings of the care facility.

When my eyes met his, I didn’t need to be introduced to know who he was. He nodded and smiled, which, under different circumstances, might have made me uncomfortable.

I nodded back, but I didn’t return his smile. Only time softly converts the repeated truth of reality into recognition, if not acceptance.

The older man looked at the framed picture in front of me. “What was will once again be,” he said, although his lips did not move.

It didn’t surprise me that I heard him in my head.

“You’re not here for her, at least not yet,” I insisted.

“No, but I’m always here. I am everywhere to untie the bind when it’s time for each of them.”

“She needs a little more time,” I answered in my head.

He shook his head. “No. Once the mind opens and self-awareness occurs, every moment is borrowed. Do you see the sunlight behind me? Smell the food in front of you? Do you not feel it when you hug her?”

“Yes.” I already knew the point. It had periodically been hammered into me throughout my years. Many of my worst moments were when the lesson slipped from my mind.

“What was will once again be. Take the pleasure and the people around you, and let it be enough. Looking forward or listening to the sounds of the grains in the glass is folly. Just as looking backward too long focuses you on what’s lost. You are here. Now.”

I closed my eyes briefly and listened to the myriad voices around me.

When I opened them, I lifted the soup spoon and gingerly fed it to the woman I was visiting.

There would always only be this moment. A long succession of them experienced individually.

For some, more. For others, fewer.

The voices, the smells, and presence.

We are all the same story, written in different verses and distinct melodies.

It is enough.

When I looked toward the window, the man was gone. The windows were dimmer, but a piece of me felt brighter. Truth is its own luminescence if we let it shine even into the dark corners of our lives.

Love, X
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Rememory

It’s been 17 years, or 6,210 days, give or take one due to the uncertainty of the day emblazoned on the calendar. 

Some years, it is sufficient to look at her family tree and at the countless pictures I indexed for those wishing to remember. 

I’m more of a spontaneous remembrance person, allowing random moments to drag me into the past.  

The bridge that might transport me back is a duality of both distance and proximity. Everyone who gets old enough feels the clock spinning like a roulette wheel, for its speed and also for the uncertainty regarding where its stop whimsically occurs. 

Even if we’re unaware of our demarcations, we divide our lives in to eras. Most of our demarcations are passive. Childhood. Graduation. A child. And the rest launch from the magical yet persistently somber consequence of being alive in this world.

I had my turnstile moment this morning. Disrespect pushed me into a flare of brilliant anger. Because of the anniversary, I didn’t need to think about how I should probably respond. Anger is a call to action for remedy or an immobilizing force. I never need to intellectualize how she might have reacted. If something made her mad, it was a certainty that those around her would not need a soothsayer or psychic. The words would flow with a grimace to match. 

I managed to merge and juxtapose her reaction with my natural inclination. The words came. Those who’ve ridden the ride and exited the fairgrounds know the stupidity of living inauthentically. Once your ticket is torn and handed it to you, the clock is already spinning. 

And so through these words that will seem vague to many and perceptively painful for others, I tell you that it’s a dangerous game to be reminded. 

I did not have a ticket rendered in two pieces in my hand today. It was given to me 57 years ago. 17 years ago, I had to come to terms with the fact that it probably should have been my ticket being requested.

I was supposed to use the alchemy of motivation and memory to live unapologetically. She handed me the baton and pointed me in the right direction. 

When the weather chills in early September, even my oblivious bones haunt me a little. 

That’s the way it’s supposed to be. 

We are all busy and occupied instead of being purposeful and satisfied. 

She whispers. 

And I listen. 

Love, X

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Black

I’m 57. One of the things I’m grateful for is that I am almost oblivious to self-image issues. Most of the people my age spend way too much time preoccupied with how they think they look. Some will say that my gender affords me a different perspective. I wish I could infect people with my attitude. You can fight the tide of aging as best you can. But if you are lucky, age will gift you with more years. In exchange, you’ll pay the price by seeing a different person in the mirror. Be who you are if you can. Since there is no such thing as a universal standard of beauty, regardless of how you get there, it still won’t satisfy everyone. Almost all fashion and appearance trends are geared toward the external, which is a strange way to focus and spend time and energy. Most say they do certain things to make themselves feel better about how they look. There’s nothing wrong with this approach unless you also disingenuously fail to acknowledge that the way you get there is by feeling like people think you look good. It’s the same problem with social media; the likes and approval feed our need for validation and interaction. There’s an element of control and curation about how we present ourselves. All of which is bizarre to me. People see us and hear us in real time each day, without filters. We are who we are in full display. Rather, we’re supposed to be. Beauty is where you find it. As is entertainment, joy, laughter, and grief.

The same circumstances and appearances cause some to blossom and others to flail. This is proof enough that the entire game is a personal perspective. You can ride the wave or swallow seawater.

Though I’ve given away many of my sentimental things, I still have one of my friend’s first paintings. She rendered the woman on the beautiful hill and the sun as black.

Below the art is a framed caption I wrote: “Black Hole Sun: The same sun, yet filtered by negligent eyes renders darkly all that shines.”

We are not designed to be immortal or perfectly rendered. We are supposed to strive to do and be our best. We’d be a hell of a lot better off by focusing on our minds and brains, which avoid physical scrutiny and bring satisfaction in ways that function independently of our faltering bodies. What purpose does it serve to be an Adonis or Helena if entropy demands that it cannot be maintained? Everything falters with time.

It’s not depressing. It’s liberating because it requires you to get up, make coffee, and put on your boots. You nod at the wrinkles and instead focus on what makes you satisfied. You can’t get there if you’re fixated on what must fail.

Love, X

Fleeting

“Tomorrow is the bastard child of our imagination. It presumes certainty wherein none can be found, even by the most expert and capable amongst us. This is no exhortation to whisper to yourself, ‘Carpe diem.’ All the things that worry you are illusions. The time you have is not even borrowed. It’s yours. If you cannot find it in yourself to detach from the self-imposed blueprint of identity and ambition long enough to comprehend this, there is no question that you’re probably wasting the only resource that matters: time. In the time it took to read this, 105 souls have moved on to whatever awaits them. That  nebulous visitor in your thoughts? The one that tickles your discomfort. It is a primeval instinct of awareness and reminder. Distractions only dampen it. Don’t seize the day. Seize the moments that are in front of you. Although you probably won’t practice it until you’re older, don’t let the words ‘later’ or ‘tommorow’ pass casually from your lips. These words are vanity in a nutshell.”

X

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It Is

Earlier in the week, someone complained that we don’t actually own anything. Their focus was on taxes. I didn’t say it out loud, but I wanted to point out that ownership is an illusion. I wanted to point out that their frustration couldn’t possibly change how things are. Even the core of identity, our body and brain, is governed by expiration. It’s not the type of comment that most people enjoy during a conversation. Certainly, we hold things for a few decades if we are lucky. There’s no doubt that everything is borrowed while we’re walking around on this planet.

Almost all of us, no matter what we do or strive for, might end up as a footnote on a Wikipedia page. Once the people we affect are gone, all we can hope for is an echo effect; moments, pieces of our love, wit, or presence that infected others for the right reasons. While I am not a religious person, this sort of thinking always makes me think of Ecclesiastes. 

We spend our lives chasing security and possession. Strictly speaking, obtaining either is an illusion. Security is momentary and based on temporary variables that we don’t control. If it can be owned, it can also be taken or lost.

I was told to relearn the lesson of all this. Jumping out of a plane helped. Watching people chase things that give them the feeling of control also reminds me that learned detachment is about the only means to let go of all the musts, shoulds, and nonsense we’ve accumulated. 

I’ve been practicing more to remind myself that worry and anxiety are largely based on the desire for control or certainty. Both steal your allotted energy to take in what happens for what it is. 

X

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One Less

One Less

I sat to write words of memory this afternoon. No matter how I tried, I kept returning to the places surrounding the person who departed Monroe County, Arkansas, yesterday. Though she lived in Memphis for a time, she came back to Holly Grove and lived a long life. She had the iron in her bones to outlive her husband, Poor Bob. She shared that almost indomitable spirit with my Grandma Nellie. I could write a volume about how much I misunderstood my aunt when I was younger. My childhood was both an enclave and a firestorm. When I was very young, she stood ready to voice her opinions loudly. Her gaze unnerved me. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how fierce her sense of humor was. She needed it to do battle with my mom. My aunt was a hard worker and had iron in her hands that my mom didn’t.

Monroe County no longer exists, but it’s still on the map. Citizens still dot the places within with their presence. But it is a place largely holding its breath and studiously peering away from its dwindling ranks. From 2010 until 2022, it lost 19.3% of its population. In that same time frame, it lost 1/3 of its 35-49 age group. Brinkley, Roe, Clarendon, Fargo, Holly Grove, Indian Bay, Blackton, Smales, Pine Ridge, Dixon, and Keevil; all these places sit in careful silence, awaiting their turn to be memories and names of places once filled with people living their lives. They’ll survive as census notes. I’ve learned more about them as an adult than I ever did as a child living there or as an adult returning to visit.

I did not appreciate the beauty of those small places until much later. To me, Monroe County was where my grandparents lived. Truthfully, Monroe County could have been almost anywhere in the delta, on either side of the Great River. Most of the places share a similar heartbeat and footprint. The odd asphalt roads, the infinite number of dusty dirt roads, miles of telephone wire stretching lazily across the flat land, interrupted by crops, mosquitoes, swamps, and irrigation ditches. Community was everywhere, regardless of the distance between neighbors.

Although I better understand it now, the prejudices seemed disconnected. I didn’t know that the same small town that held my aunt in its embrace was also the crucible for a sister that I hadn’t known for almost five decades. Now, Monroe County has a citizenship rate of almost 100% and no household reported being secondarily English-speaking. Monroe is not a place to go to; rather, it is a place to leave or retire and await one’s fate. For those who love the places of Monroe County, they feel it in their bones and wish their bones to rest there.

I cannot observe a storm without recalling the austere beauty of watching the weather move in across the open spaces, the towers of lightning and clouds visible for miles. I cannot sit on a swing without remembering summer nights. Nostalgia mostly erases the agony and buzz of mosquitoes.

Now? The last of those in my family who followed the beacon of Monroe County have gone to visit other places, ones to which we cannot tread. Not yet, anyway.

Monroe County now has one less to claim as a citizen.

But if you tally her voice and character, it lost something precious in her that is hard to define. People might be easy to come by, but there are so few remaining who, upon hearing them speak, evoke in us the spine and vitality of the places that are becoming shadows.

I can’t return to my hometown of Brinkley or Monroe County, which holds a place in my head. The same winds blow, and the same crops withstand the blistering sun. There is some wisdom that only older age can provide. Among that knowledge is that you carry some places so deeply inside you that you can’t quite identify what’s missing until you take the place of your ancestors, remembering what once was.

You can return and stand next to a recently plowed field. Or up to your knees in growing cotton. The only thing that has changed is everything.

One less.

With some, we lose more than one with their passing.

Love, X

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