knew about,
who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip,
hitchhikes into town,
and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep mid-afternoon,
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
-- Jane Kenyon
I flew my uncle to Gotham City, Jr. for his annual visit to his dermatologist. He was fairly subdued for a change. We chatted about the times we went dancing there, one great and the other time a fiasco of sorts. But this time neither of us was in the mood for dancing, especially me, with my rib still healing.
I mentioned to him that the only real severe pain I had after I left the hospital was when I lay down so I just slept in a chair with a foot stool and he said that was too bad because he bet a lot of guys would like to lay me and I said oh, don't start that again and he said sorry I should just shut up and I said oh, no, it's okay, just I'm not in the mood for banter.
He was silent for a bit and then he said, you know maybe what you need is some banter, you need to snap out of it. What good does it do you to mope around? Nothing gets better by doing that.
I guess you are right, I said, but, honestly, I feel guilty if I feel good, or am happy about something. It's like I am indulging in betrayal or something.
I can understand how you feel, he said. I was that way when I was first a widower and it's why I never remarried -- I could have, you know. I had my chances. But I couldn't do it. I felt that sense of betrayal, too. But now, looking back at the years, I think I was wrong. What did I accomplish by not remarrying and even having another, a new, family? Moving on. Continuing my life. Think about that. You think about that, Wanda.
I didn't reply. It was too soon for me to think about that and I didn't agree with him about remarrying and moving on with my life. I didn't want to move on. I had one family and had had my one and only husband and that was that.
He reached over and patted my thigh. I gave him a sour glance and shook my head. He didn't take his hand away. You shouldn't let this go to waste, he said. You still have time. I picked his hand up and moved it away. I'm more than that, I said. Yes, you are, he said, but you are also that. There is no fault in admitting it. You can open a new chapter in your life. It can be as good as any chapter you've had, even better. You won't know if you don't --
Oh, shut up, damn it, I said. I don't want to talk about this. Not now. Not ever. Okay? He started to say something, then stopped, nodded his head and fell silent. After a minute I said, look, I'm sorry I was harsh. That was rude. I know you mean well. Just give me some time. And I patted his thigh. He took my hand and held it, gave me a grin.
Then for the rest of the flight he regaled me with jokes and stories and songs. He even got me to sing along with one or two of them. And he got me thinking that it really was too bad that he never remarried. He could have made some woman a wonderful husband. He could have made himself very happy. I know his now-grown children and grandchildren adore him. He could have had a second set of both. But he chose not to, just as I was choosing not to. I was thinking what was the right thing to do as I laughed at his lame nonsense. But I knew.
In the times that used to be: