A new week and I had to be assured by a dream that maybe it’s not all over. Maybe there is expansiveness, optimism, a future beyond the random, boring (too many adjectives), dead-end stasis of old age and declining everything. I think I’m wiser than I used to be and then I look around and wonder what the fuck am I doing with all these knitting needles and yarn and dogs and furniture and old garlic, unlistened-to cd’s, a collection of opera that I hate, lamps that don’t work, bodies that don’t work and happiness sometimes really really doesn’t seem like a choice. And yet I’m so grateful for my health (relative) and my husband, and my children and grandchildren, all wondrous, interesting, kind humans. With struggles of their own but struggles lots of folks would be grateful to have.
Yet it took a stranger from another life, somebody I don’t know, somebody who denied even being an acquaintance, to smile, and suggest that maybe it’s not all over. A future, possibility, Eros for once and not Thanatos. We were walking through ivy, leaving something glittering and shiny, going toward the darkness. He said “we had a good time” and I said “yes, but it’s all over now.” Such a pessimist, choosing death over life. Then he said maybe it’s not all over. Not all over.
I had been thinking it was.