Young Man, it’s beginning to look as though we made it. The ideal lover must’ve skipped a few decades. I found him waiting for me when I neared fifty.
I no longer remember the litany of traits that he absolutely had to possess. Nor do I recognize the unshaven, long-haired man who sternly looks back at me when I blow the dust off my razor.
Those previous relationships did little to prepare us. That’d be doubly so if the scorekeeper knew that my mind’s eye no longer compares or ranks or bandies the random regret around the sunroom.
Love gave my decades their Smiling Faces.
As he listens to NPR in the next room, my Beloved is wailing, albeit internally: “Oh, woe is me!” or “Oh, woe is he!” The over-enunciated names, the coy smiles, the romantic affectations no longer matter.
The anti-Christ is unable to fill my water glass with that delightful and most Southern of familial combinations. Guilt. Fear. Desperation. Dread. Emptiness. Of course, those feelings linger. I reckon that they always will. They, however and hardly ever, grab a chair and bully me with unspoken intentions.
My heart has reclaimed all of those well-intended moments from that ever-so-sweet sweet Icelandic boy.
The bigger, more boastful loves need neither resolution nor amends. The players are gone, having packed up the world before today and, perhaps, stacked boxes inside one of those millennial “Pods”. I don’t care. I can’t care
My heart only has room for today. And I’ve already given Jon any “Power of Eternity”.
I am ready for the ceremony and its pomp-less jubilee.
That would, of course, refer to both my pre-transplant and my post-transplant hearts and my ability to call them up for circumstance.
Young Man, save a seat for me near the front. Acceptance
(Image: “Untitled [Thinker]” by Esao Andrews, 2006.)