Poem from May 3rd, 2018

it is
a
solitude
of sky
i decide
just now
in the month
of May
but not
today

Someone said, probably Shakespeare, that “all good things must come to an end”, and so the day of D3’s departure came with nary a hitch, and Sue and I, her friends with him forever, me these last 3 years, stood in the driveway with tears running down both our faces as he and his sister and brother-in-law, and of course Sof, pulled away with the trailer of his stuff, and off those 555.55 KM’s north he travelled, to Sudbury, back to his hometown. 

I sit here in my space this morn well before the dawn, in this little nook I carved out for myself, at the heart of this, at the crossroads, a new version of myself, all because of this once Crossroads Man, this complicated, corny joke telling, unPC, weirdo creative carpenter cycling guy that used to just be around the corner, a quick jaunt away in any weather. 

Photos taken May 9th, 2018

And what has changed? Well, in the beginning, my ride to work for a time as riding past his place on my way to work made me teary, so I changed my route for a few days.

Moving forward, with new people, places, things have come my way, as the wisdom goes that loss makes room for new things, if we allow ourselves to see them, grasp them, appreciate them, even while still missing the other. 

I recognized some things during this 30-day challenge and in the process of wandering through these old drafts, in going back, that I began to write political stuff more and more after he left. I see now that also is a stage of grief, anger, and so I threw all of it at my hearty disdain of the incompetent 45th down yonder, with post after post after political post. Not saying what I said was wrong, I agree with every word I wrote, but rather that I just didn’t write anything else BUT post after post of politics.

Yet, you know, this month I watch the vids, read the news, follow the links of the pundits and players and talking heads I follow on twitter, read their views, on whichever inane, incorrect, incompetent, insane or otherwise utterance from himself or one of his loyal minions of mayhem, but no words seem to flow, no need, or desire, to breed more of the divisive division and such that permeate this time we live in, I guess. 

Have I finished with that demon yet? Nope, not by a long shot, but I shall diversify, methinks, and rant on, but not so much. 

So Sue and I were here last night, commiserating over this and that, going through the week, the days since we’d spoken, over a few beers here in my nook, and of course D3 came up, and she played me this ridiculously unPC message he’d left as if it was a sex assault line — press 2 if he exposed himself to you, press 3 if he filmed you going pee — and such are the wacky things of him we miss. 

And Sof, even though she was a bit late to the party, she is dearly missed. Sue said she was reminded of her the other day watching some vid her daughter showed her of this tabby striped cat with its whole face stuck in this cardboard circle while someone tickled it with a wispy paintbrush; of course, Sof would sooner scratch your eyes out than let you try that shite on her. 

Once when he had gone to his sisters for a few days over Christmas this last it took the two of us in tandem attempts almost 2 days to convince her we would not lock her in the house, that she was free to come and go and to stay out if her silly catness decided that is what she wanted, even if it was paw freezing weather, she had a hiddy-hole under the house she had found , reverting to her feral feline on the bad streets of old east London ways of her more youthful days, though, with a dish of food, fresh water, and 2 servants to let her inside in the evening if she decided that is what she desired, which thankfully she did. 

So, he moved away, north along Lake Huron, over Manitoulin Island, crossing between Lake Huron and Georgian Bay, up to a place outside of town that his sister and brother-in-law own, an old farmhouse, in need of renovation, and a barn out back for his workshop, and lots of friends eager for his homecoming after 3 decades gone, and his bespoke upcycled carpentry not competing with the big box solutions favoured by the folks round here. 

Neither Sue nor I are in a spot right now to afford a visit, and with the snow on its way and winter proving to be a bad one, any visiting will now have to wait for Summer, so phone calls and good long distance plans are the order of the day, and his unPC messages from afar having to suffice. 

So it was through one of these many phone calls that, sitting right here, we learned of Sofie’s passing, of some scrap with an animal of the wilds she entangled herself in. One night she went out and never came back, and he thinks she went off to die on her own, as feral cats tend to do. Originally he lied, said she died in the barn, as he felt guilty, later confessing to Sue the truth of it, and this truth Sue told me last night. I told her my thoughts, that he had NOTHING to be guilty of, as she and he were familiars, he could do no wrong for her. 

Ah, Sof, she was old for a feral cat, as we figure her around 17, and those days she spent up there, away from the busy village, like a retirement, with the barn rid of mice, and D3’s grief ebbing with the flow of time this last year after their mutual companions death, and I suppose her job was done, and his familiar went her way, passing away into the night, dying as she lived, on her own, in her own way, in the wild. 

Goodnight sweetheart, goodnight, you’ve earned your wings.