For the love of older men

I just had a friend who jokingly said to me that I should stop falling in love with men in their seventies because they just up and die on me. Although that has been true-- in three recent cases as of today-- I just can't help myself sometimes. When you meet someone who has a quick mind, a love of life, a passion for something that you both love-- in my case two were writers, and one was just as nuts about nature as I am-- it's hard not to give your heart away. Each was married, so it wasn't that kind of love, but each belonged to me in a special way all of my own.

Each is missed. Sorely missed. And will not be forgotten.

I won't stop giving my heart. Life is for living and if you can add loving into the mix?

Well isn't that just the best thing ever?

bent but not broken

sodden pillow

each grieving

drop

brings me

a shuddering

breath

closer

to

accepting

is

has become

was

 

I feel rather throbby today, and not in the good way.

I think a better description would be to say that I feel scrubbed raw and emptied out.

The last two weeks have been weeks of excessive loss for me and for those I care about.

I put my third and I hope to god last friend in the ground on Tuesday.

Each loss was hard for me and of course for their families, but that one was shattering.

She was only 36.

So now it's just a matter of allowing enough time to pass to close the gaping wound that's standing in the middle of my chest where my heart usually is.

I'm going to take a couple of days.

I'll be here for Friday flash because I already have my piece written. Then I'm going to take the weekend to regroup.

I should be back to normal on Monday.

Well, at least what passes for normal when you're a writer.

[and/or me]