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The Difference Between Like and Love

by Terry Rachel, February 10, 2024

I like you. I like being next to you, I like your ways. I like everything about you. And because I like you, and everything you do, I love you dearly, and with all my heart. I will love you with every fiber of my being, and desire you in ways that have no words.

Friendships are not like this. Loving friendships can sometimes connect physically, but they fail to connect long-term on a physical level. Friendships typically return to being just that: friends. In friendships, there is a like component, a companionable component, where you share memories, confidences, gossip, hurt, and happiness. You will even love them, as they will love you. But there is no romantic love that will bridge you as one heart, the way romantic love does.

When you love someone, you will love them with all your heart and soul. At its worst, and without consideration for their own well-being, the loving heart will put themselves through agony. They will sacrifice their time and money – their love will know no bounds. As they strive to hold onto their love, while forsaking abandonment, they will face immeasurable hurt, deceit, and betrayal. They will not care. They will forge ahead.

At its best, the loving heart rejoices in their partner, respecting their time, their differences, their habits, their goals, and their dreams. They will connect on a spiritual level. They will embrace each morning and night, knowing they will be there for each other. They will exchange knowing, intimate glances, and love unabashedly, while courageously standing by to defend whatever slight comes their way.

The question of, “What is the difference between ‘Like’ and ‘Love’ has always be on the minds of others, but as long as we continue to have friendships, Like and Love, will always remain as two separate and distinct relationships. You tell your friend when your heart is on fire, and your friend listens.

Good Sport

By Terry Rachel

I went to lunch last Saturday with a woman I didn’t know but wanted to know better.

While looking at the menu, she said, “I’d like that salad with the shrimp, but it may be too much.”

I’m a good sport. I told her, “How ’bout if we split it?” I said, “I’ll order a sandwich – we can share the sandwich- and we can share the salad?”

“That sounds great,” she said.

The plates came out and we ate lunch. The lunch was over in less than an hour.

Before leaving, she asked for a take-out box. I watched as she wrapped up the sandwich to take home (maybe to eat later for dinner).

I shook my head and let it go. The polite thing to do was to eat the sandwich we split at the table. Upon seeing that, I decided to split the check.

I guess I’m not that good of a sport.

***

The fresh air hit us both so fast, and the restaurant door nearly got away from me; it was a windy afternoon in downtown Bethesda. I flipped the collar of my coat as I rounded the corner on Norfolk Avenue walking her to her car. She walked surprisingly fast, and I found myself having to keep up.

“You don’t have to walk me.”

“It’s fine,” I told her, “how far is it?”

“See the sign on that big green fence up ahead?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it.”

“Not a bad walk,” I said.

As we approached the parking lot, I watched her, as she circled between the lines, craning her neck, and standing tip-toed, her face showed a look of disbelief.

“What? What is it?” I asked.

“My car! It was right here! she said. My car is gone! It was parked right here!”

“Your car is gone? Are you kidding me?! Are you sure you parked it here?”

“Yes, yes, I’m positive!”

There always seems to be a scenario that eeks out whenever I’m out in a first meeting, and I find myself in the all-too-familiar role of having to help others in times of trouble. So, I was not surprised by the turn of events. I’m comfortable when comes to pressure.

“There’s an office over there. Let’s see if someone’s in the office.“

We spied through the window of the tiny, wooden, structure only to see evidence of a bench, a stool, and an umbrella perched against the wall.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” she says.

“Let’s take another look around the lot,” I suggested.

With little luck we returned to the office, and I could see the exasperation on her face as she was the first to notice the sign on the gate that read:

Not even during lunch did we hold each other’s gaze, but at that moment, standing there, staring at each other, we bonded, realizing we had work to do.

Copyright – Terry Rachel, Feb, 2024

Praying Like An Artist

by Terry Rachel

Oh, Lord, “I sent up my prayer, wondering where it had to go…” Joni Mitchell’s Same Situation.

Let me find a new partner who’s classy, and knows books, and knows how to order at a fine dining restaurant. She has an appreciation for the Theater, and knows the playwright Lillian Hellman, and, at least, knows Hemmingway’s short piece “Hills Like White Elephants.” She has thoughts of Baudelaire because of his poems of lesbianism.  She may also wonder why van Gogh cut off his ear. What was going through his mind? Did he lose his mind? I don’t know. Maybe she could tell me. Would she also somehow know that when Leonard Cohen sang “…and she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China” he was talking about Suzanne (a woman he had met)?  Could she laugh, and let out a deep, guttural belly snort? She’s gotta’ be beautiful inside and out.

Lesbos, where the kisses are like cascades
That throw themselves boldly into bottomless chasms
And flow, sobbing and gurgling intermittently,
Stormy and secret, teeming and profound;
Lesbos, where the kisses are like cascades!

Charles Baudelaire’s Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil

Until then, I will dwell in my thoughts of the woman who will come to me in my mind’s design. Yes. I’m a poet, a lover, and a romantic fool. Thank you, Lord, for every quality.

First Draft – January 17, 2024 – copyright – Terry Rachel

2023 – Reasons to be Grateful

by Terry Rachel

As the year closes, I return to the moments that made me happy despite the many unforeseen hardships I faced. Here are some moments I’m grateful for in 2023 in no particular order.

Watching a young girl, a pre-teen, maybe 11 or 12, sucking her thumb on a northbound Metro train. Why this moment made me happy is a mystery, but I watched her for several minutes and she didn’t notice me, or anyone else, or any other thing, she was just content to suck her thumb.

Because a friend heard me say, “I haven’t had a good read in a while,” I was sent three used books later in the summer. The card read, “You’ll like this trilogy, read them in this order.” I was so touched that she remembered our conversation. It was an unexpected gift.

As a species we are constantly wondering about ourselves, how we fit in the world, how others view us. Finding out I am an INFJ personality according to the Myers-Briggs test, cemented it for me. I always knew I was a bit of a misfit, and the test – taken 3 times, made me oddly happy. I wonder what the other 1.5% of the INFJ population is doing these days.

To know that when I squint or arch my eyebrows, I’m realizing a deep response to an individual who may or may not know what he or she is doing. Today’s youth is misled, lost without a path, hung up on social media, their aspirations to being an Influencer or You Tube sensation are delusional; the moment when I see someone breakaway, escape from the façade, is the moment I’m happy.

A friend trusted me to repay her, and I trusted her promise to bring the gift as intended. We had never met, but our agreement to hold our end of the bargain was our word. Two people, conversing only by phone, shared the belief in doing what is right; when she arrived with the package, I paid her willingly. Even now, that belief, that bond, holds my heart tenderly in my affection toward her to be true, lifelong friends.

For a moment I connected with my nephew – he was selling a painting. I liked his artwork, and this piece was an odd shape – 20 inches in length, by 10 inches in width, so unusual, it had to be hung long side up. It’s pretty, I have it hanging in my bedroom. The colors, mostly turquoise and gold, remind me of the beach on a hot summer day when your skin just burns and there’s no relief except to jump into the water. When he stopped following me on Facebook, I looked at the painting and knew it’s all I’ll ever know.  Still, I delighted in talking with him for that brief, fleeting moment in time.

I am grateful for revealing my love for God, for connecting with my faith so purely, so innocently; I am filled with love. And though I’m am gay, I find God to be a friend now more than ever. He’s a true confidant – we get along really well and He knows what I’m thinking. I couldn’t live a day without honoring my Lord.

Concentrate on what is good, friends, now, and in the years to come.

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Halloween and the Howling Laughter

I’m at Deb’s house. Me, Edie, Deb – and I forget Deb’s lover’s name, but she was there too.

Deb and her lover rented this 3-story apartment, take the top floor, and its rickety flooring, on a walk-up, no elevator, apartment in Old Kinderhook, New York. “OK” is what Martin Van Buren called it. You remember him, right? He was our eighth US President. Martin resided in Old Kinderhook and used to say on his return from any one of his travels, “Everything is OK in Old Kinderhook.” Now this town was old. Think of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Irving that was – and I think still is, a spooky old tale. That’s where the Headless Horsemen came in, spooky stuff! Picture Old Kinderhook with its low, dense hanging trees, its dark, wooden roads, and homes set off near to old cemeteries, the wind banking off the Hudson River, puts a chill through your bones, and now twilight, it’s approaching Halloween.

My girlfriend Edie and I are drunk and staying the night at Deb’s. After shots, booze – they did pot, I didn’t; pizza, appetizers, more booze, more pot, Edie and I retire to one of the spare bedrooms. This is the one set up for guests (I could tell). The adjoining wall is brick and runs clearly up to another draft way to the attic, you could see the lathe work in the ceiling. The room was barely lit by an old lamp that probably held a 25-watt bulb. The sheer curtains had some wear, and the bed, cornered under the window at the rear, sat adjacent to the outside porch. The room was musty from little use.

“Let’s open the window,” I say, “let’s get some air in here.”

Edie, tough as nails, Edie, and never afraid of too much, tells me, “I bet they’re painted shut.”

“Let me try.” I pushed and pulled up and down, in and out, giving heave, letting go, and still, after several attempts, my defeat was obvious.

“I told ya’.” She attempts the window, determined to force a win, she pushes the curtains aside, and, suddenly, without warning, so unexpectedly, a large, winged object circled the room, dipping and darting, nearly missing my head, I had to duck. Edie made a run for the door.

I yelled to her, “Where are you going?!” the door slammed shut, only to hear her response from the other side: “You have a bat in there!”

With this commotion, Deb and her lover are awakened by the noise. I could just picture them, all standing behind Edie on the opposite side, while I’m still in the room with the bat now doing bomb dives.

I’m pulling on the door, but there’s a pull in the opposite direction.

“Open the door” I yell, “let me out! “I’m going to kill all of you when I get out of here!”

Giggling.

Finally, a voice from the other side says, “We’re gonna’ help you, hang on!” It’s Deb.

She better do something, I’m thinking, after all, I’m a guest! “You live in the country! I’m from the city!”

The bat wasn’t flying anymore, thank God! He must’ve’ realized that it was futile to continue flying in circles in such a small room and was saving his energy. He landed back in retreat of the curtains.

Slowly the door opened, and I could see all three faces, but no! After Deb throws in the tennis racket, they closed the door again!

The bat starts flying again, and in response, now I’m hitting the air with the tennis racket. On the other side of the door, I hear them howling with laughter.

“I’m from Brooklyn,” I tell them, “you’re the ones who grew up on farms, how could you do this to me! I’ve never seen a bat in my life!” and with that, with that last final cry, my aim was true. The bat was kaput, slapped in the head with the racket, never to be heard or seen again.

“Open the door!” I screamed ‘the fucking bat is dead!”

Slowly, the door opens, and I look at all three. They are bending over with laughter: Deb’s lover’s eyes were tearing; Edie was banging the wall with uncontrolled laughter, and Deb was stuttering, trying to get the right words out.

“Fuck you!” I scream. “You go pick up the bat. I am NOT sleeping in there!”

More laughter.

It was unbelievable. A true story. I don’t even think I ever played tennis after that. That night, it was not OK in Old Kinderhook.

My Intellectual Biography

by Terry Rachel

I’m a plant, but I’d never repeat

a confidence. I wouldn’t betray, hope to slay,

get in your way. I’m all that it’s about and

yet know nothing. I’m high water but

I’d never let you drown. I’m brave bordering

on idiocy.

I’ve been blued, unglued,

and charged for example.

I’m fallen, forgotten and fragile.

I saved your skin,

lied and compromised.

I’ve bitten off more

than I can chew and been spat

out by others better than you.

I’ve been adored, loved, and put on

a shelf.

I’ve been escorted, reported, and

white-snorted.

I’ve been jailed, nailed,

ridiculed and railed.

I’ve been Black, Puerto Rican, and poor.

I’ve been a tissue that wiped snot

from your nose, the tears in your eyes.

I’ve been bandaged, bottled-up and broke.

I’ve been the key that opened doors

to your fears.

I’ve been the party with the lights out,

the formal dinner,

the take-out,

the 4 am diner.

I’ve been controlled, cajoled and caged.

I’ve been the face facing the fist,

I’ve been the back that held a whip.

I’ve been the long highway, the sharp turn,

the dead-end.

I’ve been loved, cherished and left.

I’ve been wind, water, and mountain streams.

I’ve been chicken cooked and cleaned.

I’ve been saved, salvaged and sugar-coated.

I’ve the hands of hard work,

the eyes of a believer.

I’ve sought truth and strangeness in

good reading.

I’ve been the sinner, the saint, and was

once followed by Jesus.

I’ve been July 4th, the blasting radio, and

the early morning vacuum.

I’ve been summer and the sounds it holds,

I’ve been a chandelier, a flashlight and

a faulty bulb.

I’ve been sickness, despair and death.

I’ve lingered long alone and jailed in

running thoughts of regret of

what I could not save nor salvage.

I am the book that you can’t put down,

I’m the book that was passed around.

I’ve listened and then ran out of time.

I’ve checked in and checked out,

been passed over, been ruled out.

I’ve choked, gasped, and couldn’t

come up for air.

I am the service counter, your

customer rep.

I am the fruit that puckers your cheeks,

I’ve been the design of your mind,

strong and kind.

I am temptation. I’ve been a puppet,

and the last person to make a

joke at your expense.

I am a cat and a dog,

I am not a fish.

I am butter melting on warm pancakes.

I am the cherry on your tongue.

I am smooth, squeaky and clean.

I’ve been sheltered, battered and mean.

I’ve been the brunt of jokes, the

joker and the fool.

I’ve suffered fools when

no one else cared.

I’ve bussed it, carpooled, hitched it.

I’ve orgied, three-somed, backseated some.

I’ve pretzeled, potato-chipped and

popcorned fun.

I’ve run miles, won ribbons and

been trophied.

I’m long limbed and short of breath.

In my eyes I have seen your

blues, browns, and greens.

I’ve bad deed it and I’ve

James Deaned it –

better than most.

I’ve broken up fights,

fought and fretted.

I’m a writer no one reads.

I am the seed, I am the weed.

I’m a jumper, a bowler, a

coaster rider roller.

I am oak, old van Gogh,

I hear nothing.

I am brass, polished or not.

I’ve fine China’d and flatware’d it.

I’ve paper-plated and aluminum

foiled it.

I’ve sung out your praises

despite your chord.

I’ve danced, wall-flowered and

fell.

I came back, hit the note but

missed the mark.

I’ve Rome’d and Paris’d it and

loved in Swiss sheets.

I’ve hammed it up with

tomato and rye.

I’ve spoken with babies, old men

and ladies.

I’ve spoken with God, the prophets,

and the saints.

I’ve honored thy mother and father

and

have given grace.

Somewhere ages and ages hence…

Somewhere in my mind’s eye, I

shall be telling this with a sigh.

When I am asked,

I will summon you to

tell me that all is not lost,

all is not forgotten.

There is a certain glory in

that I have led a full life.

Face me then – see me or not at all.

This is “My Biography”

one of the wounds,

in the wounds of geography.

Copyright February 16, 2023, Terry Rachel

• Animals
• Holidays
• Humor
• Lesbian
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• How to Tell you Like your Job
• The Difference Between Like and Love
• Good Sport
• Praying Like An Artist
• 2023 – Reasons to be Grateful

So Many Wasted Days

Writing this now I would not have believed it a year ago, when I met her face online. Tough times throughout the time I got to know her, and we fought daily. Turns out, and it took me about 10 months to realize it, never having encountered such a personality type before, but I met, what psychology terms, a full-blown narcissist. And she had all the top ten signs too: lack of empathy, miserly in her spending, over-punctilious for being on time, creating lists for the smallest of tasks, her subtle insults and digs, her delusional nature, her constant need for appreciation, her endless antagonism.

She had me spending money, and then losing it nary a refund, sometimes all in the same week. I remember giving her an engagement ring in mid-March, right around her birthday, and the following week, she’d text to say she doesn’t understand my sense of humor, and maybe I’m not the one for her, and that she’s decided to return the engagement ring I bought her. This little episode came 7 days after spending $385 on a proposal dinner.

After that, the relationship became more and more of an emotional rollercoaster, relying on her sad, turmoiled life from childhood and dumping on me every chance she could, she would heap insult upon insult at me. At first I’d laugh it off because I’m good-natured, but then I began to see her behavior as weaponizing. Then came the lies. She took back the engagement ring given to me, but refused to admit it, and then blamed me for stealing it. That was a whopper. I should have kicked her ass to the curb then, but she persisted, always calling, texting, always crying, always coming up with a sob story. Then the “love bombs.” Psychologists have a known name for this, I never realized it myself, but the narcissist will “love bomb” to the point you can’t remember why you were mad at them in the first place.

“I love you! Love doesn’t end, I’m here because I love you, you’re the one for me, I know God brought us together! Oh, I love you so much!”

And then, within a matter of a few days, the repertoire of challenge would begin again.

“You’re a big girl, you have 75 lbs. on me, why don’t you see that? When we live together, you’re going to take off some poundage.

Why do you leave so much water in the sink? You should wipe the sink down.

Please wear socks in the kitchen. Your feet sweat and I don’t want marks on my floor. Please keep your hands off the wall.

Do not lay on the couch, you can sit on the couch but don’t lay down. I don’t want you laying down on the couch.”

These are the highlights, because the amount of horrible, unfathomable, disgusting, and other behavioral shit she put me through, would be hard for any normal person to imagine.

Her ‘Pull me closer-Push me away’ behavior went on like clockwork, and almost every Friday, when I was about to start the weekend, she would start a fight for no reason at all, or, in her mind, the reasons were significant. To me, it was something over my not calling at 6 p.m., or getting off the phone because I wanted to read, or call a friend. A fight would always ensue. It took me a while to see it because I didn’t want to see it. I wanted to believe in her, believe that I had a shred of hope in whatever relationship I was building with her, afterall, we were both 66 and both waiting to find love nearly twenty years.

We would have a few good days, but there weren’t many. Her friends didn’t help matters.

Having met me only briefly, her friends would criticize me to her, and, after a while, she would believe them. Whatever they said, it didn’t matter – she would think about the plausibility, the possibility. But the worst part was when she would ask me to justify my behavior to prove a point to her friends that I really did love and care about her. Still, I don’t think she ever believed me. Her friends, like the Wizard of Oz flying monkeys, went out searching to undo any ounce of happiness she may have felt for me.

And then one month right after New Years day, she called to ask me about some money she was missing. “I hate to ask you this, but I have to.”

She sounded upset, and I couldn’t imagine what the issue could be coming off the joy of the holidays. She would call me by my given name when the matter was serious.

“Theresa, I am missing money. It was in the cabinet.”

“Yeah? Well, how much?” I asked.

“It was $180 three times, so $540. It was Mannie’s money, the money she gives me to take care of her bills, I saved it and put it in the cabinet. You didn’t take it, did you?”

My eyes popped, my tongue went flaccid, and my heart dropped. “No, Leah, I wouldn’t steal your money. How could you think that of me?”

I had never known such manipulation, but it was thrust upon me.  Maybe that lack of oxygen was getting to her head.

The girl couldn’t breathe, think maybe I didn’t mention it, but it’s worth mentioning now. Yep. She had full-blown COPD, and on oxygen 24/7. You would think she would be more humble, sincere, engaging, maybe even a little kind. Nope. She wasn’t. Not at all.

We would go out to dinner, and there was her sense of entitlement for the whole world to see. Constantly bothering, badgering, and putting the waitstaff through the hoops.

“What is your name? Tyler? Well, Tyler, this is not what I ordered. I asked for medium and you brought me out well-done.” Or, another time, “Excuse me, excuse me!” now yelling through the other quiet tables, “Can you fill this up with ice? I like a lot of ice! What is your name? Okay, thank you, Miles.”

And recently, having an afternoon lunch, and being just seated only moments before, “I want the shade dropped; the sun is in my eyes!” I told her, “Please don’t do this” as she was standing to adjust the shade, “just wait until the waiter comes over, and ask him to roll down the shade.” But of course she didn’t.

“Excuse me, excuse me! Can you roll this shade down, it’s too bright, the sun is in my eyes!”

Oh God. There I was, once again, bowing my head, turning my face to the glass of the restaurant window in embarrassment.

A few days later, after her last visit, I went through a blue period, and tried telling her. “I’m just going through a minor depression, just a few blue days in a row, that’s all. It’ll pass.”

“Well, what do you mean,” she expressed petulance and indignation, like this was a helluva an inconvenience.

“It’s fine! I’ll be fine in a few days,” I told her, “just give me some time.”

“How often do you get like this? Theresa. I need to know. Does your cousin know? I’m worried about you; I’m worried about you! I will call the suicide hot-line! I’m worried about you; I don’t want to hear you talk like this! I will call your boss!”

Oh. My. God. I’m thinking, She has lost her fucking mind, and her response to my being blue is being so overblown, this is not normal fucking behavior! It’s like she’s fucking upset because I am taking time away from her, and her needs!

And so, it was.

I had to cheer up quickly, let me tell you, because she had zero empathy. Any other normal person would have responded, Ah, I get days like that, it’ll pass, don’t worry. Wanna’ talk about it?

But histrionics were the norm on so many days, so many crazy days with her, so many arguments, so much wasted time, that when I think back now, part of me is broken and scarred, another part of me has lost hope, and yet another part of me thinks she’ll have to find new dumping grounds for her unresolved childhood bullshit. I’m glad I escaped, but I didn’t leave unscathed.

Copyright Terry Rachel 2022

The Cocktail Party

I’ve been looking at friend photos of the Thanksgiving that just passed, and it reminded me of a dinner party my companion and I held while living in Albany, NY. We lived in a really cool rehab brownstone around the block from the governor’s mansion. It had all the cool – brick walls, original floorboard, galley kitchen, great outdoor space, and I did some artsy deco stuff around the faux fireplace that made the mantel stand out. Needless to say it was great for parties, and my companion and lover at the time, was a young, absolutely gorgeous, Julie Christie look-alike. We were young, fun, fabulous, and we both believed in an open door policy – where our generosity knew no boundaries, particularly around the holidays.

By six at night, the party was in full-swing. People were bringing gifts and placing them under the Christmas tree that was centered between two big, floor to ceiling windows. The tree looked perfect in the living room, nearly 8 feet tall, it filled the apartment with aromas of freshly cut pine. Both Edie and I greeted each guest, taking their jackets, and offering a first glass of wine or champagne.

I had invited Erin and Lisa, two friends who I had known from Brooklyn, and who had transplanted themselves, moving to Albany a few months earlier – over the summer, for a job with New York State. “Oh!” I said to Erin, “How are you?!” We kissed and hugged, introductions all around. And I remember Erin winking at me and whispering, “Wow, Ter, she’s beautiful.”

“She a lot of work, Erin” we smiled knowingly. “Does this have to be refrigerated?” as she passed the tray, so many people were in the kitchen, and it was Edie pulling me aside, “I’m putting the ice on the deck, there’s no more room in the refrigerator. What’s that?!” she said, pointing to what I was holding.

“It’s something from Erin and Lisa – “

Edie, always in a rush more than me, “We can’t fit it! I’ll put it under the tree!”

The next day the regular clean-up began, the expected dishes in the sink, the leftovers sitting on the counter looking half-dead, the open bottles of wine with their mismatched corks, and someone forgot their gloves. Where was the Advil?

I walked into the living room and the cats had taken over the tree, it was askew and one particular gift was ripped apart, and I could see tiny bits of food strewn across the wrap that surrounded the Christmas tree stand. I picked up whatever was left of the “gift” and read the tiny card that was still intact, “Terry and Edie, Merry Christmas! Love, Erin and Lisa”.

That was so sweet and kind and thoughtful of them to bring a gift, and the shrimp cocktail that never made it to the frig.

Texas Too Soon

By Terry Rachel as told by Terri Mason

Thoughts on Mitzi

Remember how we use to call it the She-Shed because I was always running out to get some tool, and you would always tell others when they called, She’s out in the shed. Well, this morning I sat in the she-shed and cried because, like always, I needed your help. Without you I am not that strong. If I could just hold off till you get back home it would all be better, but then I realized you’re not coming back, you’re never going to be here again to help me, to tell me there’s a better way. I choke up and cry when I talk about you. Even the funny stories are cut short by my heart thrusting into my throat, stopping the words in their tracks. I keep thinking I heard you call out, that I saw glimpses of you in misty forms moving quickly in front of me. I wondered if that dish that slid off the dish rack, after having been there all day with no movement, was you. I thought I felt your hand on my shoulder, on my cheek, and I convinced myself that your lips pressed against mine in one last kiss. I trudge on and get the work done, but I know it won’t look as pretty, but I hope that it will at least be level, because straight it will never be. Maybe later, we could go pick some clover and make jelly.

Chattanooga

Some couples survive in their relationships, we thrived. In our twenty years together, Mitzi and I had less than six fights where we raised our voices. During the Chattanooga years, we often spent weekends at the nearby lake. We enjoyed pebble games, where I’d toss pebbles her way when she wasn’t looking; she’d toss the pebble closest to a forgotten can, or in the divot of a piece of inland driftwood. While fishing, she would sometimes fall asleep, but always kept her hand on her fishing pole in case a cantankerous catfish or bass pulled the line. When she was asleep, I’d tease her, tugging her line to signal an ensuing battle. “Stand up, you got one!” I announced, shaking her out of her sleep, She’d jump up and pull hard on her line, sure that she had a big fish on the other end, “now reel it in… hard!” I don’t know how many trophy fish she thought tempted her line, but every time she battled one, I’d cheer her on. The stories we shared are too many to tell, but you couldn’t help but laugh along with her, as her laughter was contagious. We were truly each other’s best friend.

Every morning before sunrise, Mitzi would get up and feed the neighborhoods strays. We were running an unofficial rescue center. She’d trap the cats and take them to the shelter not too far away. We fed birds, Mourning Doves, squirrels, and other visiting critters. A bird she named Broken Wing came within a few feet of her – and that was a couple of feet more than the week before, to feed from her hand. She had a way with animals. She also gained the trust of a cat she named Blackie. The fact that Blackie, one of the many stray cats in her fold, actually let her touch him was not only a miracle, because Blackie was feral, but she gained his trust in only a few short weeks! Meanwhile, we had a running order from Amazon for cat food – for cats we didn’t even own.

Texas

We left Tennessee and moved to Texas because Mitzi wanted to move closer to her family. I agreed for Mitzi’s sake. I wanted to make her happy. I remember joking, you’re not going die on me once we get to Texas, are you? Like a lot of people, we bought a modest home with some land, but the house needed some work. For starters, we had to get rid of the godawful orange walls in the kitchen and the nasty linoleum floor. After hours of prepping we were both tired, so I suggested she take a nap, and I stayed up all night getting the kitchen floor ready for the new flooring.

It’s day eighteen, or twenty-one, depending on the actual or official date, I can’t remember. All I do know is the anguish and pain I am feeling, and I can’t can. She never woke up from that nap, I can’t do anything about it. Three months living in Texas and I go and lose my perfect person. It’s easy to tell the facts, they never change. They just are. What’s hard is talking about this hole in me, the emptiness and the loneliness I feel, especially at night. What’s impossible right now is not being able to release the image of her while I frantically pumped her chest and screamed her name.

I clean, but continually find another footprint or smear from the dirty feet of the ambulance team, and I am reminded again of how she was laying on the floor with her clothes cut down the center so they could place the nitroglycerin patches on her chest. And then I move the bed to clean up the cat hair that always finds its way underneath, and I find the mouthpiece they used to push air into her lungs.

And people say call me anytime, but you know they don’t want your burden added to theirs. That’s why they don’t call you. They never know what to say, they think you’re going to turn around and be the person you were before. But you can’t, because you don’t know how. You’ve never known this pain before. It feels like a charley horse in your chest and throat, and the tears won’t dry up. And you tell yourself that you’re thankful for the fur babies that keep you going, because they are your sole responsibility. Only you will be taking out the trash, and watering the garden, cleaning the litter box, and feeding the chickens, and mowing the lawn, and painting the rooms, and laying the floors, and going to the grocery, and paying the bills, and figuring out how you’re ever going to sleep in that room again.

Five Months Later

At one point, just over a month ago, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. I felt empty, and in agony, every waking moment of the day. My world has been so screwed up, that I have not been able to think much beyond the immediate. I haven’t been able to entertain future options or possibilities much past a week. Making big decisions has been foreign to me recently, and even decisions involving regularity has come with major difficulties. However, on Friday, I thought that I had lost the one thing that held me to the bond of what we had for the previous 10 years. I lost my wedding ring. I looked in the dirty clothes, in the trash, in the refrigerator and dishwasher. I looked in the crevasses of the car, and in the parking lot at the vet’s office, and at work. I asked around, but no one found it. I wondered if this was a sign that I needed to start thinking about moving forward, about getting out of the rut I’ve been living in.

I began thinking of my next adventure, either with or without a new relationship, and I felt a lightness in my spirit – a freeing of some sort. The thought of going forward without a companion was sad to me, and I decided that I would not become a person who lived a life of solitude. I pulled the blankets back to get into bed, and there was the ring. It was like it had been placed there. I don’t recall taking it off, and my finger hasn’t shrunk enough to have it slip off. It is however, how it will stay. I laid the ring besides hers in the jewelry box.