My friend, Patrick, sent me poems (What’s He Thinking is thanks to him). He was the only person who did. But he spent these last few weeks of summer slipping away from us, day by day. Friday I sat by the side of his bed, chatting and laughing with his nephew/namesake Patrick. My Patrick smiled and fluttered his hand at us to let us know he heard, but he was too weak to speak.
When the pain grew too great he clasped my hand while his nurse dripped soothing morphine between his lips and down his throat. When I left I kissed his lips, his hands, his forehead.
Monday morning I called to ask if he was entertaining visitors. In my heart, I knew the answer already. Patrick died Sunday night.
The bells toll this morning for my friend, Patrick (An Air That Kills), who died last night.
Twiggy thin may have been cute when I was 18. Not so much now.
My long-time marriage imploded so quickly and completely that I was left crumpled in the rubble. My body consumed itself in shock. After struggling for ten years to lose five meager pounds, I dropped fifteen in less than three months. After a lifetime of sleeping deeply and peacefully, I’d lie awake for hours. Some nights I didn’t sleep at all.After a life time of loving to read, nothing made sense. I’d go to bed with The Atlantic Monthly, which I habitually consumed cover to cover, and not one sentence, let alone a full paragraph, could penetrate my battered brain cells.