A Rabbit Died
A rabbit died yesterday. Not a sign of pregnancy. Been there. Was that. No womb within me. No relationships present nor accounted for. Two spouses released by death from cancer. Both attorneys. Both buried in different sections of the same cemetery. Both liberals. Both with a female relative who demanded allegiance ad infinitum.
Before the first spouse died, a pigeon crashed into my car. Every time thereafter, birds who perished while I drove along the highway signaled a dread event. How relieved I was when I no longer drove. Before the second spouse died, we found a crow on our front lawn. West Nile Virus, not my Corolla. Omens galore.
For the deaths of any cars I owned.
For husbands I did not own.
I am superstitious. Consult the I Ching, my Biorhythms when time permits. No psychics, for they can read my face. The rabbit is a new threat. Probably died after the Condo maintenance men scared him or her into the garage, to hide beneath a tarp, spread over an old rollator. Poor thing. Is it a sign that our dear orange leader will obliterate us and earth? If that is the case, how much time do I have to write a blog? Why do I worry about the current ineptitude of that awful man? My children have their own lives, and thankfully did not vote for him. But some did. And because this condo development is rife with his voters, I can only write about my feelings.
A sage once said that penning thoughts on paper, then setting the paper alight, would send a smoke signal to the heavens and prayers might be answered. The same with putting wishes into a thought bubble and watching it ascend to the heavens. But that is poop, because I prayed for my husbands to live and nobody came to help, instead left me as their caregivers. G-d is too busy to answer our prayers for good health or election results. He gives us what we deserve, but some on earth deserve better. Whatever the Lord’s plans, he, too, is unpredictable. My spouses died horrible deaths and we are faced with uncertainty.
The only certainty is that I was never divorced, as though that gives less cache than being an ineffective caregiver of men, perhaps even of my offspring. Instead I have been divorced by friends. Circumstance is often the reason. Propinquity. Differing values. Political affinity. One friendship died of malice. Friendships collapse of their own accord.
One day I will examine them. Dead animals were not the cause. Something inside me must taint love and like. The one door closes and windows open, a mystery. The result of losing husbands and friends might be resolved by my present decision. No men. I am eighty, wear a ton of paper diapers, keep Amazon in business, and with a timer bell set for two hour intervals, race with my Canadian rollator to the bathroom. No Tinder for me. No more dances. No flirting. Why would any man want my limited lifestyle nor the prospect of dying of cancer?
What I desire most is a person, man or woman or transgender or Muslim, to discuss intelligently with me this world, to understand my sense of humor, and to banter about that bantam in the White House.
