sweet man. you dearest, sweetest man. sweet and seeing my sweetness nothing hidden, not even in the beginning because friends don’t lie Friends don’t hide things from each other. I don’t want ours to be the kind of relationship where we hide things from each other. no matter what they are. there is nothing you can tell me that I will not hear. you only have to tell me. it’s all I ever ask for.
there is so much to talk about, always. so much to share, to discuss.
it is this part that I miss the most, the talking the hashing over the intricate and meandering conversation.
I love listening to the sound of your voice, your passion obvious and enchanting as we talk about everything, and nothing
finally a spate of cooler weather of breezy weather. easy-breezy chicken francese cooler head less on fire brain, still convoluted and badly tangled, untangling. thoughts racing and tangled more, faster but less I don’t know less what? Less rage, more anger. Less fury, more sadness, and disappointment. Less fire, more ice.
More clarity.
There is no “what did I do to deserve this?” or “I didn’t do anything to deserve this” No. Those thoughts begin to bubble up and are stopped at the first word. Silenced. No. No. I say no. I will not begin to embody those thoughts. This has nothing to do with me. Not ever again. Nothing. No thing.
it has gone on so long now that there is no coming back. there is no balm, no quiet murmured assurance, no comforting touch that will ever, ever save me. Save you. Not from this.
I thought I knew you. I suppose I do. You know what you have lost. I see now what I have gained.
This girl. You see this girl, smiling, happy. This sweet kitty, snuggling this smiling girl.
What you don’t see. The remade bed, the just-changed sheets that have needed changing for too long. The remade bed that until five minutes prior, I was in, under the covers, chest heaving, desperate to recall the feeling of the embrace of a good man, a sweet man. The soft, welcome heaviness of the weighted blanket on my shoulder, my hip. so close to feeling the way his arm did, draped across my shoulder, holding my hand, fingers intertwined. his warmth behind me, curving into my back.
what you don’t see. tears staining my face the roughness of Mojo’s tongue on my cheeks, the delicate inquisitiveness of his nose at the corners of my eyes. knowing that the memory of the feeling would have to last until next time.
I am happy that I can remember, even though the stopgap measures, the heavy blanket, even though trying to not be lonely only makes me lonelier.
flooded. finally flooded. amnesia haze i am in an amnesia haze. username checks out. five stars. 10/10 would recommend. i know that there isnt much left in the bowl and i will have to go inside to get more. to feel better. more. right now just enjoying the evening sounds rain from the last downpour in the downspout birds settling in for the night the neighborhood quieting my brain quieting.
i should go back inside, fill the bowl. always ready.
I am so tired of wanting and wanting and wanting. I am so tired holding my own hands and hugging my ownself. I am so tired of being exhausted at the thought of cooking a meal for one person. I am so tired of all of the things that I am supposed to be doing filling my head to the exclusion of all else almost all the time. I am so tired of the noise. I am so tired of being woken up in the middle of the night by my own sadness. I am so tired of being so tired.
I want things. I want to not be so tired. I want to not worry about all of the things all of the time. I want to see a request for penpals in a nursing home in North Carolina and not burst into tears at the thought that that will be me someday, alone in a nursing home, begging for a penpal. That everything about me will be written on a piece of poster board, begging for a pen pal. “Lysa loves cats, existential conversation, the color purple, and monster trucks. Won’t you please write to her? Please?” the hopeful smile on my face plastered there for so long (no one wants to be friends with a mean old lady so i smile) no matter how hard it is no matter how alone i am, have been.
I am so tired. I am tired of knowing that as much as everything is already crashing down around me that it will only get worse for the ignoring of it, the putting off of everything possible and many things that are not
i am so tired of faking pleasantry and ease i am exhausted dodging “how are YOU???” sidestepping directly into “what can i do for you today?” avoiding, bobbing, weaving slipping out from under the hammer of HOW ARE YOU. my extended silence and thrumming tears not enough of a delicacy for some HOW ARE YOU . i’ve said this before, my pain must be delicious. michelin quality. galaxy class.
Woke up anxious and depressed. 7 am. It’s an hour and a quarter later I have smoked something that usually is very reliable, I am almost finished with my buttered coffee, and I am still anxious and nervous and depressed there is nothing that is working for me.
today is Saturday and I am going to work and it is going to be busy. I am going to take an edible before I get in the shower and I am going to bring more edibles with me and I don’t know how I’m going to get through the day. Harris isn’t going to be there and I don’t think Jay is either so I don’t really have anyone that I can just tell that I’m having a hard time. Doc is going to be there but he is with patients all day.
Today is going to be really fucking hard. Because it is already. My entire body is tense.
Understand that all of this is happening. Understand that there are things to do to mitigate it, and that you know what those things are. Understand. understand that you really have to do them.
Talk to yourself as you would a friend. What do you want for her? Use perspective to help her, you, me.
I’m going to need a lot of help today. I am hoping you will listen.
I don’t know, how I don’t know how it got to be a thousand days since you’ve died.
A thousand four days. How?
I don’t know, I don’t know how that happened. But I know that I’ve missed you every fucking day. And I just… it’s only and already two years and nine months tomorrow and I just keep talking to you, I just keep talking to you. I keep talking to you because I don’t know how else to, not.
We always talked. About everything. We did that really well, talking. Sometimes not so nice. But we always talked.
So now what, do I just ask questions at the air? Do I just keep doing what I’ve been doing and uh, keep talking to you this way, writing, and…
I found pictures of you. Well, Brian found them in the attic. I’ve never seen these pictures of you before. There’s a really hot one.
I miss you. Every goddamn day.
Love you more.
Gary, age 20. 1990. Killer smile, wink, and dimple 😍😍😍
What I am about to say I don’t say lightly. I can only describe this as a completely surreal and supernatural experience. I don’t know what to do and I think I’m losing my mind. I mean I know I’m not I just don’t know how to explain it.
I posted this on my fb feed just before midnight, borrowing from a sister widow, knitter, friend.
I am not superstitious. I am the least woo-woo person you will ever meet. Yes indeed, I sure as shit am an absolutely fucking magical creature myself, but I am not superstitious. (These things can coexist. It’s pure energy.) I don’t believe in shit like that. Spooks, ghosts, psychics. None of it. I have written here exactly how I don’t believe any of that shit.
And still…
Today, my best friend, my soul sister, Paula, and I were up in the attic at the house I’m losing, pulling out the last things that I want to take with me. Making sure there’s nothing left behind that I don’t want to one day accidentally see in a dumpster. The Governor was on (day 100? or is it 101?), his calming voice filling the blisteringly hot attic. I was feeling really good about the things that I was pulling out of boxes, things that I was setting aside to give away, things that I was setting aside to keep. I opened up the box and saw the familiar shape of a black CaseLogic CD holder. It was a big one, and there was a half size one underneath it, and a shiny purple one beneath that, with a sticker of a red corset with garters on the front. I opened up that one, it held a bunch of CDs that I used to play over the speakers in my shop. I hated listening to the radio, hated commercials. “Store Mix 11.12.2003” (some mixtape CD I’d put together, check that out later) and Soul Coughing and some Dick’s Picks and tons of others I squeed over when seeing. Knowing I would probably want to keep most of those, I picked up the big CaseLogic one to sort through. I was partway through the ancient printer drivers and font collections when I gasped. There was a CD I’ve never seen before. One that said, “Gary 🖤’s Lysa”. No case, no liner notes. Just his handwriting.
I knew then that I would have to sort through them all in order to take only the ones I wanted with me. I showed Paula the CD, her eyes lit up and she smiled hugely and said “That’s cool!” My plan was to play it on the way up to the pottery, it would be my soundtrack.
(the way that I know 100% for sure that I have never seen this CD before, that I’ve never listened to it, is because when we moved into this house, he read me a poem that he had written. He was hesitant to read it to me because, as he said, it “wasn’t a very nice love poem.” It began with the words, “I love you mostly much.” And that’s all I remember of it. I don’t remember any of the rest and I have been looking for it for as long as he has been dead.)
If I had had any idea, if I had had any wisp of a thought that there would be somewhere, in this house, physical proof of how he actually felt about me? I found the copy of Shakespeare’s sonnet 145 that he typed out for me and folded into an origami envelope. I showed you that, here. I showed you. Proof.
I loaded myself into the car, heading up to the pottery. I popped the CD in and waited.
(I am the type of person to always play everything on shuffle. My brain, everything in my life is on shuffle all of the time. I am chaotic neutral, chaotic good if you must but I am chaotic. Everything is always on shuffle.)
Not this time.
My husband was nothing if not methodical, determined, deliberate. Every single thing he ever did in his entire life was deliberate, The good, the bad, and most definitely the ugly. if he made a playlist for me it was with absolute and explicit intent for it to be listened to in the order in which he created it. So listen I did.
curvy guitar fills the cabin of the car, What’s Your Name. Okay. So. They’re problematic for a host of reasons, but I did have a blacklight Skynyrd poster in my bedroom growing up, Confederate flag in the background of the poster. I didn’t even see it for what it was (I also watched The Dukes of Hazzard) I just liked the music. If I saw it now, I would torch it. I had somewhat of an urge to forward through to the next song, but I didn’t. I just listened.
More curvy guitar. Without checking, I would venture to bet that the guitar in question is a Rickenbacker. I Know A Little. Again, controversial Skynyrd, but the lyrics are starting to poke at me.
I know a little about it I know a little ’bout love And baby I can guess the rest.
Lynyrd Skynyrd
Okay, still not forwarding through to rush to the end, simply listening and playing and absorbing.
(this is where the screaming starts.)
I want you to want me I need you to need me I’d love you to love me. Didn’t I, didn’t I, didn’t I see you crying? Feeling all alone without a friend, you know you feel like dying Oh didn’t I, didn’t I, didn’t I see you crying?
Cheap Trick
I was driving, heading north to the pottery, heading north to see what my new pieces would look like, pieces that I had made with partners in mind. Pieces that I had mended and had crossed fingers, eyes, and tails hoping they would stay unbroken.
My fingers dug into the steering wheel as my mouth opened in a silent scream that quickly gave way to one that filled the cabin. Tears flooded my eyes, hot and salty, smearing my glasses. I kept listening.
In this life I’ve seen everything I can see woman I’ve seen lovers flying through the air Hand in hand and I’ve seen dreams that came from the heavenly skies above I’ve seen old men crying at their own grave sides And I’ve seen pigs all sitting watching picture slides But I never seen nothin’ like you Do you, do you want my love, woman Do you, do you want my face, I need it! Do you, do you want my mind, I’m saying it! Well I think you know what I’m trying to say woman I’ve seen enough of the world to know That I’ve got to get it all to get it all to grow…
Electric Light Orchestra
The thoughts that filled my head were completely untenable. I was becoming unmoored and unable to do anything but keep driving. Unable to do anything but hold that steering wheel as tightly as I could for fear of letting go. Fear of letting go of the steering wheel and what would happen if I did. Unbelieving as to what I was hearing, what was happening. I knew exactly who I wanted to tell, needed to tell, possibly the only person who could understand exactly how I was feeling, knowing that I needed to remember everything exactly as it was happening so that I could write it all down here. because while I have no explanation, no rational, logical, useful explanation, I know that it was happening and that it was happening to me and that it was happening right now.
Something that sounds like chamber music now fills the air. More ELO.
I was searching on a one-way street I was hoping for a chance to meet I was waiting for the operator on the line (She’s gone so long) What can I do? (Where could she be?) Don’t know what I’m going to do I got to get back to you You got to slow down, sweet talkin’ woman You got me runnin’, you got me searchin’ Hold on, sweet talkin’ lover It’s so sad if that’s the way it’s over I was walking, many days go by I was thinking about the lonely nights Communication breakdown all around…
At this point, there is no sound other than the music that fills the car and my own screaming. I am shaking and crying and screaming I’m driving as hard as I can to just get there. To get to safety and to the hug I desperately need.
(you all understand where I’m going with this, don’t you? The completely absurd and surreal and wholly supernatural ((and when I say supernatural I mean completely inexplicable as yet)) I don’t even know what to call it)
Still listening.
I do believe in you And I know you believe in me And now we realize Love’s not all that it’s supposed to be.
Chicago
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
And knowing that you would have wanted it this way
I do believe I'm feelin' stronger everyday.
I know we really tried
Together we had love inside
So now the time has come
For both of us to live on the run.
After what you've meant to me
I can make it easily
(yeah, yeah, yeah) ((sarcasm mine))
I know that we both agree
Best thing to happen to you
The best thing that happened to me.
Feelin' stronger every day.
roaring in pain and sadness and rage and fury and WHY
Still listening.
Piano, then trumpet.
Saturday in the Park I think it was the Fourth of July. People dancing, people laughing A man selling ice cream Sing Italian songs Eh cumpari, ci vo sunari Can you dig it (yes I can) And I’ve been waiting such a long time.
Chicago
Yes. Yes I have. I have been waiting such a long time. I’ve been waiting such a long time for this proof. (no, not proof of an afterlife, not proof of him talking to me from beyond the grave but honestly I have no idea what’s happening but this, this is proof.)
Proof of how much he felt about me. Proof of how much he loved me. Concrete physical proof. Not something bought; something made. Something he created just for me. Continue listening.
dear gods.
What’s new, pussycat, whoa Pussycat, pussycat, I’ve got flowers And lots of hours to spend time with you So go and powder your cute little pussycat nose Pussycat, pussycat, I love you, yes I do Pussycat, pussycat, you’re so thrilling And I’m so willing to care for you so go and make up your big little pussycat eyes Pussycat, pussycat, I love you, yes I do.
Tom Jones
So now my face is not pulled into a rictus of fear and unknowing and instead has this silly, slightly stoned-looking grin on it. Still listening.
Sexbomb. Just going to leave that there.
More piano. Basic drums. Dirty guitar.
It’s not in the way that you hold me It’s not in the way you say you care It’s not in the way you’ve been treating my friends It’s not in the way that you stayed till the end It’s not in the way you look or the things that you say that you’ll do Hold the line Love isn’t always on time.
Toto
do I pull the car over? Do I pull the car over because I don’t know that I can hold on any more.
It's not in the words that you told me It's not in the way you say you're mine It's not in the way that you came back to me It's not in the way that your love set me free. Hold the line. Love isn't always on time.
My brain feels like it is on fire at this point. I am trying to compose this piece that I am now writing while I am driving 65, 75, 85 miles an hour. I am overwhelmed with everything and trying to ask questions to the air because that’s all there is in here. Air and sound.
Still listening.
And though I know about all those men Still I don’t remember ‘Cause it was us baby, way before them And we’re still together And I meant every word I said When I said that I love you I meant That I love you forever And I’m going to keep on loving you ‘Cause it’s the only thing I want to do I don’t want to sleep I just want to keep on loving you.
REO Speedwagon
I love you. I love you so goddamn much and I miss you every goddamn day and WHERE ARE YOU
STILL LISTENING. (there is a slowdown on 17; I have since rolled up the windows so that I can blast the music and scream as needed)
From my heart and from my hand Why don’t people understand My intentions. Plastic tubes and pots and pans Bits and pieces and Magic from the hand We’re makin’ Magic and technology Voodoo dolls Electricity we’re makin’ Fantasy and microchips Shooting from the hip Something different we’re makin’ Pictures from a magazine Diagrams and charts Mending broken hearts and makin’ Something like a recipe…
Oingo Boingo
Okay. I get it. You’re here. You’re telling me in no uncertain terms that you are here. Okay. WHAT the FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS INFORMATION???
still listening.
Drumbeats. Are you fucking kidding me.
Color me your color, baby Color me your car Color me your color, darling I know who you are Come up off your color chart I know where you’re coming from Call me, on the line Call me, call me any, any time Call me, I’ll arrive You can call me any day or any night Call me.
Blondie
I spot movement on the rolled up passenger window, I look in disbelief at what’s crawling up the glass. A bee. You know, like the one that’s tattooed on my arm. Like my nickname for my husband. Bumblebee.
Call me. Okay. Not with a fucking bee in the car. I roll down the window, watch the bee hang on for dear life, pretty impressive if I’m being honest (which I am), and finally at some point, it disappears. I am unworried that it might have ended up inside the car as I don’t think it’s going to bother me. Call me. Jesus.
Still listening.
One way or another, I'm going to find ya.
Even though the lyrics to this song are on the creepy side truth be told, this is comfort to me. I am just going wholesale into believing that whatever is happening is happening.
Still. Listening.
I know this is long. Trust me, the hour that I took to drive was one of the longest hours I’ve ever spent.
I’m lying here on the floor where you left me I think I took too much I’m crying here, what have you done?
P!nk
And it’s here, at this point in this truly bonkers narrative that a bizarre screeching noise begins to come out of my speakers. The song is making me really unhappy, not in the same way that the rest of the songs made me unhappy but in a truly unhappy way. The screeching is getting worse, and I hit the off button. Just like that, the cabin is silent except for my own ragged breathing. I look around briefly to try to make sure that the bee is no longer in the car, I turn up the air conditioner, I know my face is red and puffy but I don’t care. I wait a minute or so, until I have cooled down. I turn the stereo back on, and forward to the next song.
I’m a loser And I’m not what I appear to be Of all the love I have won and have lost There is one love I should never have crossed She was a girl in a million my friend…
The Beatles
Shaking. Still listening.
At this point in my drive I am way up in the wilds of Ulster County where the cellular service is terrible and GPS isn’t much better. “St. Louis Blues Jam” by The Beatles comes on. It’s a soft little pleasant interlude type of thing. I tried several times to get SoundHound to figure out what it is, and I can’t. It had to wait until I was home. I am almost to the pottery at this point and I am wondering how many more songs are on this mix.
Soft acoustic guitar and the telltale sounds of a record popping in the background. Our song. Blackbird.
Tears are streaming freely down my face at this point and I am just smiling with the insanity of it all, grinning like an idiot. As I see the final landmark, a sign on the right side of the road that says “Welcome to Dwaarkill, God’s country” the song is ending. I hit my turn signal to pull up the drive and the last few notes of the song echo through the cabin, blackbirds singing the distance.
I’ve gone back to work, albeit only one day a week with clients, one when the shop is closed. I went for a test at the drive-through location in New Rochelle. Everyone there, the State Troopers, the Army, the healthcare workers, everyone was so calming. One of the army guys, the name on his jacket said Lorenzo, he called me beautiful. He saw how nervous I was and he called me beautiful.
I’m waiting for results, no symptoms but I’m in a public-facing position. I was sicker than I ever have been in my life back in January but no way of knowing if that was it.
I’ve gone back up to the pottery after a 5 months hiatus. I’ve wanted to go back, needed to go back. I’m making new work with nowhere to sell it but online. It isn’t really the selling that the making is about, though.
I called my father. I haven’t spoken to him in a brutally long time. i know that he did not recognize my voice. but i told him that i loved him and he told me that he loved me too. i’m going to call him again this saturday.
I’ve been writing more, leaning into how cleanly I want to live my life, how little extra baggage I really want to carry with me. Channeling and focusing the rage that has been, in my past, such an incredibly destructive force with little to no benefit into something that I can use as both a tool and a weapon. It’s been this side of exhilarating, and I want to keep it that way. It isn’t something I want to revel in feeling but to be glad to be done with.
My second husband used to get off on watching my fury rage on unfettered. He loved how sharp I was, how precise. How everything I said was undeniably true.
That is until the day it finally turned on him in earnest. The day in couples’ therapy when the doctor asked me how I was feeling after watching me sit and seethe for 20 minutes, when he asked me how I was feeling and I turned to my husband and answered,
“I’m feeling like every time you fall asleep before I do how much I’d like to slit your fucking throat.”
I can tell you he didn’t like it very much then.
I’m not going to send this to you, am I. No.
I have no way of knowing if you are alive. I wish I did.
i have harnessed my rage, my dysphoria my fear. coalescing twisting down deep needling in not a pinprick, no knives-sharp. talons-strong. this particular prey has been waiting simmering back-burnered. today, too much. enough. time to stick it straight through the eye and into the brain destroy it so efficiently so completely so, so. that even an offender this egregious this deserving of wrath this necessarily murderous preciseness so fucking dense that volcanic fury is all that will forever make him think twice and again, and again. he knows my passion, whet it. words on a screen are nothing to the maelstrom that i bring in the flesh. i kept going, calling him out for every transgression. i paid out enough rope for him to not only hang himself but macrame a body bag. and boy howdy did he deliver. i launched my final assault, knowing i’d need no more.
do i hope i got through? do i care? yes, not for him, but for the countless women he will no doubt woo and offend. truly believing bitches be crazy.
he’s right. bitches be crazy. but we’re not stupid.
The Salty Widow 