She always thought she would find love again … someday and that in her older older age she would have her love along for the ride and they’d be happy in their dragging about — their old bones — helping each other with kindness and care but more so passion for finally having found, at last, the love they’d always dreamed of.
Who’s to say that anything is better than another unless you live it.
Might he, could he, should he leave ahead of her, in the event there was such a one — would she spend her last days grieving — losing again — how many times by now.
Is it better to have loved. Certainly the ones before have left a little more than nothing in the end. Memories of what it feels like to wish.
“I wish he had really loved me instead of just pretending.”
“I wish he hadn’t left me standing in the water of my tears.”
“I wish I hadn’t cried so much for nothing.”
Might it be better all around to simply leave things in the clouds for others to stumble upon as they might or may and needs be — like a story of how it might have been or was?
What it seems is really true is that the wishing is for more time to get things right. More time to learn about what life is — why drinking hydrogenated water might be good or how to make it so that it can be drunk. For more time to make up for the time spent drinking to get drunk — wasted time the same kind as what was wasted spent on thinking love was found and of standing in puddles of its tearful and sorrowful remains for far too long.
It is best to simply love what is living in proximity and not go looking for it elsewhere. Grass goes brown over there too if it isn’t loved enough. How is love better there than here?
Whatever stray cat jumps the fence and lays about shall have it — the ones inside too. Ants and bees and turtles and birds and whatever shows itself for needing something tender — they shall get her love for now.
Image credit: The Guardian – Claws out! Why pop culture clings to the crazy cat lady
Writing Spool 