That's the name of one of those old Stones' albums, yes?
In this case, I mean it to signify what comes after all the drama and the death of both parents.
Even though she's gone, I talk to my Mom regularly, thinking I need to give her a call for this or that. Since my Dad was always quiet (it was extremely rare for him to get on the phone and in person, he had few words), I only think of him-much like when he was alive.
Now I'm in the process of paying all the bills, doing all the legal paperwork and cleaning out their house, which is quite a task. But after all, who among us will die neatly, with all their "i's" dotted and "t's" crossed? Shuffling off the mortal coil is hard enough, never mind trying to leave little or no trace. I'm sure whoever has to take care of my "trail" will curse me and wonder about just what I left behind. I wrote a story about this in which the one who died narrates-damning those who "clean up" after him and dissect his idiosyncratic and odd collections.
Tears come erratically-I never know when the gates of the waterworks may open, although rarely does this happen in public. Seemingly odd combinations of memories-you could almost call them dream-like-bring me over the edge and into the place of mourning.
My work has not suffered-although things seem a bit more choppy and days off are usually devoted to estate "maintenance" rather than artwork. There is a cathartic feeling in sorting through their possessions and keeping, tossing or recycling. I've become a member of "Freecycle" -last week, I "recycled" a small room full of National Geographic magazines, which my Dad had a real penchant for. There are now loads of Decoy carving books, art instruction books, collector guides (my parents discovered the flea market business after they were officially retired) that I need to find buyers and/or homes for. The other question is about selling the house-not that the market would allow this, but how and when is an issue. And the other issue looming is: where do I want to go from here? I'm free-I could live anywhere-New Mexico keeps coming up-but, in the very shadow of my parents, I am such a homebody and someone who is so happy in that home-will I risk a new place even though I've got (relatively) little to hold me back?
This is Johnny, the dog that rescued me-I adopted him on Pearl Harbor Day-a week later, my Dad got really sick and a downward spiral followed. This dog thinks he's a king and I s'pose he is in my eyes.
