next kiss

Female. My age range (meaning within fifteen or twenty years my junior; within, meaning potentially one year my junior, or seven, or six months; hate my shallow chronological standard if you must). Equal to my height or shorter or taller. Equal to my weight or less than, but not 100 pounds (cf. hatred disclaimer above and modify accordingly). Lips not striated, thin, or parched. Full. Supple. Soft. Lipsticked, possibly amply and possibly boldly red. Not arid yet not slobbery. Preceded by mutual visual, olfactory, tactile, and verbal cues, signals, codes, mutually deciphered on some primitive and inescapable level. Daytime. Not morning. Initiated by me (to atone to myself and the world for a lifetime of uninitiativeness). But an element of surprise not adorned with aggression. A dollop of serendipity. Tentative. A false start. The risk of failure. And then the at-first subtle though soon sure and unmistakable reprise and reboot of First Kiss (see preceding post), the sought-for though unexpected betrayal of the rules of the universe, allowing the participants a taste of sparkling history and young wonder. Crackling of burnt dendrites.

The First Last Christmas

The nurse practitioner had recently assured me: this would be Mom's last Christmas, not merely because she is 102. Her heart is failing, she's not eating or drinking much, the end is near. It is the fullness of time, her time. People say, "I'm so sorry," but I choose to look on the unsorrowfulness of her having lived a full life (her past participle hovering now between present and past), her current comfort, the relief, the letting go. But I understand they don't know what else to say. So, I knew it would be the last Christmas. This did not make me dour or gloomy. Instead, it magnified my visit and vision, and slowed me down. I looked at the sidewalk and the building entrance more acutely, marking it for gratitude now and for memory later. To my surprise, I learned she had already eaten lunch at Oasis, the dining hall. I was a tad disappointed not to lunch with her, as we did on Thanksgiving, but oh well. As I walked the several hallways to her area, I saw a woman slumped over, sitting in a wheelchair in front of the nurses' station. Could that be her? Kind of unusual for her to be sitting there, not lying down in her room. It looked like her. It was. She was nodding off. I tapped her right arm. "Mom, it's me." As suggested by her aide Nicole the day before, I brought her a comfortable pillow, one with a soft and plush texture, like the blanket one daughter had given her and the other daughter had given her as a sweater. "Who's this for?" "It's for you, Mom. How do you like it? It feels nice, right?" She felt it and enthused about its softness. "Who made it?" "I got it at the store. It's for you. I got it at Marshall's." "Thank you." "You're welcome. Merry Christmas." I drew up a chair next to her and sat in it. Then I popped up and got a tissue and tried to clean some eye gunk in her left eye, though it's the right one that gets closed from gunk because she sleeps on that side. The dry tissue didn't work. I talked to two nurses or aides in the hall; they said I should talk to the nurse in the office behind the desk. She used baby lotion or something with a moist cloth or paper towel; each eye; it worked. I felt she could've been more gentle, but then maybe it wouldn't have worked if she had been. I sat a little while and then popped up again to get her cold apple juice with a straw. She loved that. I gave her the straw three or four times for sips. "What are you doing after this?" "I'm going to go for dinner at Ethan's. We're going to have turkey. There'll be six of us." "When are you going there?" "At 5:30. Maybe I'll take a nap first." (Maybe?) "How are the roads?" "They're fine." "You're going to Ethan's. That's nice. What time?" "5:30." "You're having turkey?" "Yeah. Remember, I made it many years when Beth had to work. It's not so hard. People make a big deal over it. The gravy's the thing, the hard part. You had the best gravy of anyone, Mom. The best." Her eyes brightened. "Yes, oh yeah." "One time, was it in Stamford, we didn't have any Gravy Master and you were looking all over for it. All you need is a few drops." "That Gravy Master is the secret ingredient." 

A family down the hall had a golden retriever with them. I importuned upon them to stop by. I knew she'd love petting that dog. she did.

"Well, I'm going to go, Mom. Do you want me to take you to your room to lie down or do you want to stay out here?" "I'll stay here." I kissed her on the cheek and then again on the forehead. "I love you, Mom. Merry Christmas." "Merry Christmas. Thanks for coming, for always coming." "You're welcome. Why wouldn't I? Glad to do it." Our eyes locked. I walked down the hall, but not before waving to her and she to me, as if we were in the departure lounge at a bus station or airport. 

After the nap, I headed, solo, to Ethan's house, at 5:20. I felt but tried to ignore a low-grade hum of loneliness, sadness, and dreaded what-if-ness, not about Mom but about me and my journey thus far and today in particular. I feared a low-grade hum turning into a full-blast bass note. Approaching my son's house, I felt the evening darkness descend, the cold air blanket downward. This could be the last Christmas for any of us. Who are we to say? Who could be so cavalier or breezy to say otherwise? Sure, I'll be the oldest there, but we know what can happen in the blink of an eye, rudely disrespectful of age or station. And if a year later, we were absent, any one of us, or more, we would give the world to have this back again, pay any price, sell our souls and honor, anything, just this one time.

The shimmering snow crystals in the frozen, star-specked moonlight on the lawns to the left of the sidewalk. The town's bright holiday lights twinkling up ahead to the right. The patter of my footsteps. The strands of ice on the steps leading to the door. My hand on the railing. The barking dogs. The glass panes in the front door clouded over, frosty, from the condensation and warmth inside. 

. . . and counting

. . . years, that is. you're as young as you feel. hate that expression. or: 70 years 'young.' puhleez. but yes better than the below-ground or for that matter above-ground funereal pyre-combustion-result alternatives. okay, so officially old. i'll take it. tho' not sure what changes occur regarding my juvenile habits, wants, desires, impatience, attitudes, pretensions, fantasies, poses, memories, laments, hopes, or dreams . . .

dream lover

At the stoplight, he glanced into the rearview mirror. It framed a vision. She was looking down, obviously at her phone, at a text or a message, who knows perhaps a YouTube video. She was young, with dark hair, dark eyes, dark eyebrows, long, dark hair. Time stopped before the light changed. What a dream, he thought, relieved the light was turning green, relieved she never locked eyes, as can happen in those mirrored exchanges. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream" floated into his head as he put his left foot on the clutch, pressed the gas, and turned left.

amid the geraniums

"Let's go outside. It's not too bad out there, Mom." We walked out of the dining room. She used her cane. I slowed my pace yet was slightly ahead of her. We found two chairs facing the setting sun, partly in the shade. A man to our right sat in a chair, slouched, eyes closed, mouth open. Facing us, a man and a woman, he in a wheelchair. "Those geraniums are really something, aren't they?" "They're beautiful." Eight hanging baskets in two parallel rows. Bright red geraniums, full, lush, some buds still to blossom. "I love that tree like an umbrella. They get it to be just right." Sparrows jumping into the bird bath or leaning over for a sip and then darting off. Bees landing on the ground-cover flowers. She kept coming back to the geraniums, mentioning them over and over, with the same phrase, as if we had not already spoken of them. And I'd reply likewise. The sun was too hot for her. I said it was because her black pants absorbed the heat. The couple in front had left. We took their seats. The sun was at our back; we were in the shade. She could smell the fragrance of flowers. I could not. Purple. White. Green. Yellow. "That guy is dozing off." She replied: "You never know. Maybe he just doesn't want to talk."

managing oldness

After my previous post, on managing newness, I figured it begged for this: managing oldness. You could make a strong argument that I should reissue the "managing newness" post virtually unchanged, and just view it as intended for "oldness"?

What difference would it make?

But that's merely postmodern cleverness, or a simulacrum of it.

Managing oldness.

That would refer to accepting life's limitations, such as memory lapses or confusion, and alterations in physical strength and endurance, and reduced motivation blah blah blah, and accepting that life itself is limited, as opposed to the invincible and robust notions of never-ending youth.

But I'm not even sure of that. To quote Bob Dylan, in "My Back Pages":

 "Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now."

My best and most prolific work came after I was 50.

life skills coordinator

I see where the Washington Nationals baseball organization has hired Rick Ankiel as "life skills coordinator," to mentor their minor leaguers.

Where was such a coach when I needed one? 

Would I have listened (i.e., practiced what he or she preached) if such a mentor were assigned to me?

Does anyone ever listen to such advice when young?

It is an intriguing title.

Life Skills Coordinator.

What skills get coordinated?

How?

And is it too late for me to receive (and act upon) such guiding, coaxing, coaching, nudging, encouraging, admonishing, ameliorating, correcting, rectifying, advising, pushing, and coordinating?