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Pop returned from his two-day stay-over at Kay's. After he unpacks, he asks me what I want from the store - I say, molletes - and he does his rounds. When he returns again and we are done unloading and putting away the goodies, he mutters to himself, "I am tired, I am so damn tired!" loudly and with some real passion. I feel for him. He turns 77 this year. I am amazed that he still maintains a fairly normal life, albeit moving a little more slowly and gingerly.
Feelings of guilt are stirred up in me. It is my shoulders who should be carrying most of the burden of our little lifestyle. Instead, I spend the day reading poetry and Nietzsche, and playing Solitaire, listening to my "Hamlet" audio-book - as if this were a meaningful and productive way for an adult man to live his life, like it pays money. And I am coddled and taken care of like I'm the one who is seven years old or seventy-seven. As if mowing the lawn and taking care of my own personal chores is more than my fair share of the load.
But I really am useless. I am too purblind to even get a driver's license. Worse yet, it's not as though I am in the least inclined to get a job. The only people who are likely to hire me are the fast-food joints or similar bottom-feeding operations, and that's just not going to happen. We have lived this way for close to thirty years now, and I guess we are just going to have to finish it out. I knew the ending would be the hardest part, but it is a whole other challenge to have to actually go through with it, as we move from theory to practice. Dying is an art, like everything else, right? And I was never much of an artist.
Feelings of guilt are stirred up in me. It is my shoulders who should be carrying most of the burden of our little lifestyle. Instead, I spend the day reading poetry and Nietzsche, and playing Solitaire, listening to my "Hamlet" audio-book - as if this were a meaningful and productive way for an adult man to live his life, like it pays money. And I am coddled and taken care of like I'm the one who is seven years old or seventy-seven. As if mowing the lawn and taking care of my own personal chores is more than my fair share of the load.
But I really am useless. I am too purblind to even get a driver's license. Worse yet, it's not as though I am in the least inclined to get a job. The only people who are likely to hire me are the fast-food joints or similar bottom-feeding operations, and that's just not going to happen. We have lived this way for close to thirty years now, and I guess we are just going to have to finish it out. I knew the ending would be the hardest part, but it is a whole other challenge to have to actually go through with it, as we move from theory to practice. Dying is an art, like everything else, right? And I was never much of an artist.
