Don’t think about stuff.
Shove it down. Don’t feel.
Just do what has to be done.
Get up. Get dressed. Feed the dog.
Pat the children on the head and go to work.
Review the invoices. Call the clients.
Check. Re-check. Repeat.
Every day.
They gave me a watch when I retired.
Eighty-two years old today. Took the ferry to the city to get a meatloaf sandwich.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my wife standing next to me.
Holding on to the guard rail.
But I am mistaken,
Beth was buried years ago under the apple tree in Lloyd's cemetery.
Lost her fight to uterine cancer. The kids came to bury her. And they never came back.
I didn’t know how to talk to them. So I didn’t.
I didn’t know how to talk to my wife. So I didn’t.
People think I am simple.
That I don’t see the complexities of human emotion.
That I can’t appreciate the beauty of a moth.
That I don’t notice the single tear in the corner of a windblown child’s face.
But I can. And I do.
My father never asked me about my feelings.
My wife never asked me about my thoughts.
My children never wanted my opinions.
Eighty-two years of ideas.
Eighty-two years of passion.
Eighty-two years of hiding who I am and what I desire.
Eighty-two years of not telling people I loved them.
Eighty-two years of never feeling the caress of a hand on my fevered forehead.
I fear it is too late for me.
