not home

It's not that I'm not thinking, it's just that I've hit the wall of inertia again.  Why talk/write about it? Who cares?  

I received another one of those soppy, blackmailing chain letters this morning, with all the fine sentiments suitable for stitching on a sampler. (No one knows what a sampler is; it was before my time, too.) But instead of giving me a warm, cosy feeling, the message made me even more aware of how alone I am.  This one is in praise of sisters, that is, all women who are your sisters, better than husbands or children or family,  women who stand by you.  Yeah.  Well.  So.  

Here I am.  (And there you are, whoever you are.) My parents are dead, my husband is dead, my brother is dead. I never had a sister.  My best friend died a dozen years ago but she had been remote as we lived in separate cities for 30-40 years.  I have a couple of dear old friends dating from the time we were young mothers together in Winnipeg, 50-some years ago, and I try to get to B.C. to see them maybe every other year, if I'm lucky.  I have moved too much.  I've lost more friends than furniture, but even in my living room, the dearth shows.  There used to be a style called Early-Married Baroque in newlyweds' homes, being an accumulation of used stuff from the parents. That was before living together before marriage, double incomes, and bridal registries.  Couples of whatever persuasion have everything they need.  Now what I have is Late-in-Life Remnants, what remains from a lifetime of loss and fill-the-gap purchases.  Not complaining,  Not.  I love my present home and I hope I can stay a while. Furniture and friends are sparse but I'm still here. 

Back to the chain letter. I'm supposed to send it on to my "sisters" and be prepared for lovely feedback.  I don't know enough women to send it to.  

You, out there.  If you were closer I'd bring you some soup or muffins  Pass it on.