The wind wisps across the yard. Kicking up the leaves, we have still yet to rake.
"We" and "rake", as if I had ever raked.
The hours numbered and all I can muster is to sit here, in this old decrepit chair writing. My fingers are sore today. My biggest battle was to decide to type or to write with ink and paper. I chose the latter.
My words tumble about, rushing to escape my mind.
My humbled realization that they shall stop soon.
Trying to wrap myself around that concept, as I watch the ink pour out onto the paper. Not paying attention to what I am writing anymore, just watching the ink as it falls to the paper. I am the master of it. Creating it. Curves and lines and splotches too.
Jezzy walks out in the yard. I fear this has all been too much for her. I have to lay here, sit here and just be present waiting for...
For when I truly have to say goodbye.
What an impending doom.
Her hair floats in the wind, and my eyes travel the length of her body.
Her body. How could I ever utter the words of the depth of my love for her? That my very core was stolen the day she handed me her business card.
I can still smell her as if she were laying here in the room. Her face content, her body relaxed, or as she would say, “I am just blissful" and her eyes would be small. Almost squinting to look at me across the room. Her chest heaving, lifting her breasts slow and deliberate.
As I sat at my desk, trying to put words onto paper for the next book or next article.
Instead of enjoying the high of getting laid.
Everything about her, about us, was all her. Her essence.
And I chose, consciously to stomp on that essence.
The brutality of living. Existing to?
Exist, a strange word today. Irrelevant.
Everything is just not that important anymore.
As Jez bends to feed the ducks out in the pond, my heart feels what is important.
A master of words, as I have been critiqued and I have none. None that could sooth her mind. For she shall go on with out me.
Why does this bother me so? She has done so without me for five years. Quite well.
What stops me from giving her that kudos? What has stopped me, created me from doing anything.
This house reeks of life. Sickens me. I can gaze out now, into the yard and see days of the children swimming, fishing or just laying about the yard. Teen angst, bitter fights and drunken foolish ideas.
All for my written word.
It holds nothing now. Immortality.
Stella said this to me the other day, “You are immortal now Daddy.", as she flipped through one of my books.
I'd give all the notoriety back to be nothing, just to have those years back now.
How come I realize now, today, right this very fucking minute of all that was important?
She picks flowers from the edge of the pond.
That, that is what is important.
A simple gesture of being.
No story has ever captured this, for me. I have lived it.
Tossing it about, as if...
I would be here forever. Immortal.
That makes me chuckle through salty tears.
What I would give to feel her again. To lay next to her and feel her chest against mine as her breath slows. She is here out of kindness. Her heart always soft for those underdogs in this world.
Never would she, be able to live in good faith knowing. Knowing that the father of her children died alone.
A drunken sot. Worthless and full of shit. Her simple goodness.
She'd mutter that I was “a man who could make the world see the beauty in the world through one sentence and yet I was too harsh in my reality."
Mine as well.
Her peace comes from being.
The clouds loom dark. Hovering.
Threatening. Foretelling. And yet she still sits there. At the edge of the water.
Even from here, I can see the blue of her eyes. I can smell her soapy skin. Even taste her.
Nights we spent in this room. Moonlight seeping in, her favorite moments, she'd whisper in my busy mind. When she was able to convince me that it was her skin against mine that I needed.