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I did not want to meet you now.

December 10, 2007

It was a small spot on my ear. Nothing very big, I scratched it intermittently and once it broke open, yet soon covered over. But it never completely went away either. A summer later, bubbly looking growths appeared on my shoulder. These and the ear thing were on the same side of my body; the car window side. Old sawbones cut and burned and stitched, and I knew for certain. The tests confirmed it.

  Having been through all phases of the plague with both parents and assorted friends, my feeling was that once you had it and were diagnosed, it never went away. It was busily moving around through the body and mind of the afflicted until it achieved ultimate victory. The plague always wins.

  I witnessed the battles and self-help groups and restorative surgeries all with the same gimlet eye. The proud herbs and defiant trips out of country, and prayers all resulted in the long dirt nap. Wasted insurance money, ignored prayers, lit candles and bedside vigils, the stuff of blind idiots, dancing to the skeleton music of the long foregone conclusion that you’re dead meat, sucker, read ’em and weep.

  All this feels differently knowing it’s me that’s on the short end. Yet now it is just a matter of years, (that’s what they all say), it does not feel so bad. Finally there is a finish line of sorts and the guessing has gone out of the game. Am I moved to right past errors or somehow attempt to make up for lost time? No. Am I spending hours musing over a life that could have been lived differently, or somehow better? No. By what measure would better be better? Am I foundering in an ocean of self-pity, blame, rage or frustration? Somewhat, I suppose, but a taste of these normal human reactions are certainly to be expected. I am not down and wallowing uselessly in the mire of defeat or tearing my garmet over the unkind lack of fairness of lifes’ caprice. Pay your nickel and take your chance.

  There are a few things I mean to do, but they are not out of the ordinary, nor anything I would not do anyway. I have no affairs to set right, and the day for settling old scores has long past. Nothing is not the way it should be. Do I have regrets ? Of course, yet who does not and what difference does it make, since loss and regret are as much a part of life as happy memories and fond by-gones. I did not want to meet you now, though, as pleasant as it is .

From → imagination

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