Mr. G's Christmas

Even on his worst days, his demeanor doesn't change.  How can I complain about anything when I know he will not?

Mr. G needs help getting into and out of bed each and everyday.  He can't even bathe himself or relieve himself alone.  Mr. G isn't as vibrant as he once was; six months ago.  He looks one hundred.  Six months ago, he looked his age; ninety two.  They said he wouldn't make it.  Funeral plans were drawn up in July.  His children, his grandchildren, his few remaining living friends; they all came to his side to say goodbye.

I was there.  Not that it matters.  But there is something poignant maybe tragic when one of the remaining faces of a generation is about to pass. 

He's not supposed to be here this Christmas.  Yet, here is.   Full of cheer.  Goodwill.  Life.

Mr. G is full of life. 

Last night, he was humming along to Silent Night.  It's his favorite Christmas carol, he says.  My wife, God bless her soul, she made me listen to these hymns 12 hours a day each day of every December until her last breath.  Sleep in heavenly peace, dear. 

He does this thing where he starts speaking about her and mid-sentence, he starts speaking to her as if she is standing in the room with us.  His eyes glisten from the newly formed tears and as one softly rolls down his cheek, he stops his story and just smiles.  

Mr. G is excited about seeing her again. 

He loves Christmas.  He has 92 stories he loves to share but his favorites are the 45 he spent with her.  Mrs. G, God bless her soul.

It takes him five minutes to get up from his favorite chair in his living room and walk into his kitchen.  He refuses help.  Then, he pours himself a tall glass of cold milk.   This is all I'm allowed to drink during Christmas season.  Mrs. G hated eggnog.  You can't love Christmas unless you've felt the love of a woman.  Sleep in heavenly peace, dear.  We just let him talk.  Each and every word that comes from his mouth is captivating.  I wish he could talk forever, I think silently.

He's not supposed to be here.  July was his expiration date.  I even had my suit picked out for the burial. 

Before putting his carton of milk back into the refrigerator, he laughs.  Look at this goddamned date on this box.  Predicting death.  Telling me to hurry before this milk is no good.  Who decides what date to stick on here anyway?  Seems rather arbitrary.  It's December 18th and this goddamned thing says Good til December 14th.  Shows what they know.

We laugh at the irony.  There's wisdom behind his short lived obscenity laced rant.  He made his point.


Mr. G is vibrant these days.  It's Christmas.  His favorite time of year.  He's not alone.  His children, his grandchildren, and his very few remaining living friends visit him daily.  He is soaking it all in.  The warmth, the good cheer, the good will, the love.  And Life.

This is probably his last Christmas.

Probably.

Sleep in heavenly peace, Sir.  Whenever it's time. 

Statue

Sooner or later, we're strangers again.  No lie is greater than I'll always be your friend.  And I don't know what we are.  I only know what we were.  Discretion is the better part of valor.  Famous last words of an everyday martyr. 

And here I am; staring at the clock.  Ticktock, two a.m.  A stranger again. 

I'd rather be a painting on a wall than a statue in the park.  Look at my colors.  Light and dark.  Interpret me, majestically.  I'm someone's creation; someone's art.  I've become a stranger to you.  A statue in a park.

Sooner or later, these things occur.  Sitting on the porch discussing how things were.  Old war stories.  Those past glories.  And we stare at the clock.  Ticktock, another passerby.   She's so beautiful.  There she goes.  Sigh.  Maybe, I'll catch her around the block.  If I'm not too late.  I probably am.  Years as a stranger.  Famous last words of just a friend. 

All the pigeons are out of bread as they commence at my feet.  Who notices a man made of concrete?  I used to hang so proudly on your wall.  Like that crucifix around your neck.  Patience is a virtue.  Famous last words of a lonely heretic. 

And here I am; staring at the broken clock. Ticktock, two a.m. A stranger again.

Sooner or later, this comes to pass.  Out with the old, in with the new.  One woman's treasure is another woman's trash.  Famous last words of the forgotten statue. 

Blur

Drunken haze, don't fail me now.  I would rather forget this in the morning.  Disclaimers should be allowed.  Or at least, some type of warning.  Here we are; not where we were.  Hello love, I'm just a blur.


Busy bee, pollinate.  Forgive me while I pontificate.  All these broken flowers are in bloom.  Wash away the stench of our perfume.  Busy bee, I'm right where I've always been.  In front of you, in bloom.  Busy bee, I'm sure you would concur.  You fly too fast, I'm just a blur.  Busy bee, pollinate.  Forgive me as I commemorate.

We're all bigger than life after death.  A rewritten history is all we have left.  Or at least, all we can hope for.   You, on the other side.  You're just a blur.  But I'm alive.  I'm right here.  Busy bee, in her beehive. 

Drug of choice, show your face.  Contaminate my time.  Drug of choice, don't let me down.   Domesticate my overactive mind.   Here we are; not where we were.  Hello love, I'm just a blur.

The Perfect Loneliness

That pedestal I put you on was nothing more than a novelty; a twisted, well intended form of idolatry.  Perfection is a possibility; even in this case of loneliness.  You want equality.  I want harmony.  And they cannot co-exist. 

I resist your independence.  You disregard my sentiment; redefine it as arrogant.  Back and forth, the staring game.  I would blink first, your holiness.  I'm just aiming for the perfect loneliness.


Have I reached the point of indifference?  Maybe yes.  Maybe no.  Turn up that sad song on the radio.  Let me drown out my own feelings as you sing where art thou, my Romeo.



Those butterflies; they flutter still.  No one speaks of the elephant.  Dead horse twitches against my will.  My thoughts and feelings; never relevant.  And that's alright, I'm stuck in a spider's web.  Chasing you with a butterflies net.   Back and forth, the staring game.  I would blink first, my Juliet.  I'm just aiming for the perfect loneliness.

Neurotic weather up ahead.  Days of summer no longer a novelty.   All these things I dare to dread; just a self fulfilled prophecy.  I'm alone and that's alright.  Loneliness; no one's monopoly.  You're alone and that's alright.  We've got each other in perfect autonomy.

I think we've found that perfect loneliness. 

The Whole World

It's easy to part with someone forever.  I know this because I've done it and because I've been shoved out of lives before.  I'm not unique to this.  Nor are you.  These normal life circumstances arise like growing older or moving on or just a simple case of new people.  It happens.

The whole world thinks they're unique to suffering or hurt.  You tell me a story of loss and naturally, I will tell you a story of my own loss.  I will one up you, so to speak.  But I will do so under the guise of trying to relate to you or comfort you.  I'm selfish.  So are you.

The easiest thing, we as people can do, is love.  It takes no effort.  Not only do we want to be loved, we want to love.  In fact, we have to love.  Something.  Someone.  Anyone.


I had this old job that required me to collect money for the newspaper.  One day, as I was looking at address numbers on a sidewalk in an unfamiliar neighborhood, I watched a car pull to the side of the road.  This woman opened her car door and pushed her dog out of it.  Then she drove off.  The immediate reaction of that dog was to chase her now former owner's car.   The dog just kept running and running towards the woman who rejected him.  I slowly drove behind the dog to see if maybe this was all a mistake; thinking the woman either accidentally let him out and would realize it or it was intentional and her conscience would get the best of her and she'd come back.

Neither happened. 

The dog stopped running once that car was no longer in his sight.  He stopped in the middle of the road; looked around at his unfamiliar surroundings and just laid down.  Right there, in the middle of the road, he just laid down.  It was as if he just gave up.  On everything. Everyone.

These two children came out of nowhere and approached this medium sized brown short haired dog.  Quickly, they had earned his trust.  As they turned to walk away, that dog followed them.  They took him home.

I sat behind my wheel and just thought to myself at what point do we become disposable to others?


I have loved three women in my life.  I mean, deeply loved.  I won't distinguish between a school boy crush and some mature grown up love because there is no fucking difference.  Two of those women have moved on.  Time, circumstances, fate, whatever; they've moved on.... One to fill her family albums with someone not me and the other, had an early expiration date.  Either way, both have moved on.  It hasn't diminished their meaning in my life.  I haven't stopped loving them.  Who could?

Love is so illogical.  There is no rationality behind who we fall for and why sometimes it just doesn't end as expected or even why two mismatched people work well together.  The whole world may roll their eyes or call us crazy for our choices but none of that matters.  If we take the whole world's advice and strive to fit their standards, that wouldn't be love.  That would be something else.  Something disposable.


It's so easy to give up or look to upgrade.  I know this because I've done it.  I've quit people before ever even giving them a chance.  I've quit people because I thought the whole world knew what was best for me and I based my standards and my integrity on their whispers.  And it's not right.


My unborn son will probably never get this speech.  Chances are, he won't even ever exist to learn what really matters versus what the whole world says matters.  And I'm okay with that.  I have to be.  Because I love him and the possibilities that exist within potential life. 

We have to love.  Something.  Someone.  Anyone.  Be it, real or hypothetical.  Love is limitless and illogical.  Not disposable.  Or even reasonable. 

The whole world wants the same damn things but they hold each of us to different standards than their own. 


A few months later, I returned to that neighborhood where that disposable dog was last seen.  And there he was... laying in the front yard grass where I last saw him with those two same kids by his side.  I'm certain that rejection he faced months earlier was long forgotten.  I'm certain that dog, those two kids; that new family couldn't have been more happy than they were at that moment.

The whole world loves happy endings but defines everything as tragedy or heartbreak with some misdiagnosed negative connotation attached to it.  

Nothing ends perfectly.  But everything ends. 

I suppose that is all I would ever need to tell my unborn son if he existed.

 

The Greatest Lie

The greatest lie I ever told was I don't care.

It was December if I remember.  Around Christmas.  The greatest gift a man can get is forgiveness.  As the cold turned to warmth and the season began to change, spring brought forth indifference.  Stoic me, barely noticed.  I just don't care, I said.

Who's the anchor?  Who's the ship?  We were both in love.  We were both seasick.  I threw all my worries overboard; ready for this lifelong trip.  With you.  And only you.  Oblivious me, with my smug smile and ever so deluded view never imagined my world without you.  But you could.  You did.  I just don't care, I said.

Like an astronaut floating in space; you were, you are my gravity.  And I float and float further away from you as you replace my oxygen with apathy.  They say, when love evaporates, the first to go is your sanity.  And I swear I just don't care anymore. 

As the silence turns to days, here comes back all my insecurities.  Those warm hellos and I love yous; no longer priorities.  If I'll fade into obscurity, only time will tell.  Have we really reached the point of text messaged apologies? L O L.  I speak to you in acronyms and you speak unaffectionately.  O M G.  I just don't care, I said.

It was December if I remember.  Around Christmas.  The greatest mistake a man can make is to bear false witness.  And I just don't care, I said. 

A man and his dog

It was a look of compassion from his eyes towards me.  The harshness of the moment was handled delicately.  I like to believe if he could speak, he would have forgave me. 

A lick to my hand as he lifted his paw.  It was a handshake of sorts from an old friend  This is the moment every man dreads, of course, I thought.

It was the end of a man and his dog.

Fell in love with this girl long ago.   She had eyes of blue.  Little do you know, she would have loved you. 
Found a little acceptance in the oddest of places.  Those blank faces; if only they knew, all the reasons I always come home to you.  That girl with those eyes of blue; she knew. 

Those little conversations came to a halt.  And they're only understood by a man with a dog.

I was looking for quiet.  And I found it.  There's no way around it; now, I can't shut up.   It's easier to talk when everyone wants to interrupt.  I was speaking at them.  Over them.  Around them.  Never to them.  And they were doing the same.  Are we even friends, I thought?

It's the question asked by every man with a dog.

Because dogs listen.  Even if its not by their own volition.

They never knew of the girl with eyes of blue.  And her demise.  Or mine.  I'll talk about her another time.
Maybe, when the storm cloud passes.  If it ever does.  I'm over it, well I was.  And that's the thing, we never are.  Or will be.  Over anything.

Nothing is ever meant to be forgot.  There's no shame for those things that make us distraught.
Ask any man with a dog.

I was looking for comfort.  So I grabbed a drink and drowned in it.  For years.  Those tears; they weren't even mine.  That comfort; it appears I had already found it.  It was right here this whole time.  And it can never be understood unless you're a man with a dog.

It's hard to feel alone with a face staring out the window as you pull up to your driveway.  And when it's time to go, that same face, with a pleading glow, reminds you there is always a reason to come home.  I swear, he was always there.  Through the joy and through the despair.

I guess, I should confess, I did not realize the magnitude of what we shared. 

That handshake of sorts from an old friend wasn't goodbye.  It was thank you.  And I have to believe, if he could speak, he would have said you're welcome.

I turned around back to where we came from.  Empty leash in hand. 
He really loved me, I thought.

No one can really understand. 

It's between a man and his dog.