Ramblings of a Desolate Liver

Ramblings of A Desolate Liver

         Wonder if Penn would have won the Pulitzer Prize today? With those 15 word sentences and descriptions that require thought; can our 21st century minds even concentrate that long! We are people of 10 - second sound bites. Breaking news in 10 - word blurbs running under our sit-coms. Text messages of 3 syllables.  A man born in 1905 is sure to be seen as a fusty-dusty has-been. Given a literary death from too many words.  No one reveres the aged anymore, even our heroes are has - beens.  No. Penn wouldn’t win any prizes this year. Words; too many words. Old people; old thoughts.  Let the young live.  Don’t go too far back in time. Importance of today reigns.

         There was a death this year in Evert Crossroads. Not good enough to solicit interest from the news media; wasn’t the case of an 18 year old student or a kidnap victim, thank the Lord.  Just the passing of an 88 year old woman - my grandmother.  Everyone comforts me by saying the right words.  She was old. She had a full life.  If she’d lived, look what she have to go through, what with the chemo treatments and everything.  Better this way. 

         They are wrong.  A death is still a death.  The living still feel it.

         The nuances of her life bring her back; she won’t be forgotten. The ‘phone rings. Is it her?  Glance at the clock.  Right time of day.  No. Can’t be her; been dead these 6 months.  Too bad. 

         Cell phone rings.  Someone alive. Talk awhile, make plans.  Hang up.  Remembrances. Scroll through its phone book, wasting time.  There’s her number.  Can’t delete it.  Would make death too permanent.  If it’s in the ‘phone, maybe she’ll answer when I call. Shake my head.  Still can’t delete it.

         Reflections occur.  Death intrudes upon life.  Now would be a good time for her to call.  Not doing anything of importance.  Not rushing out the door to go where ever is pressing. Wish she had called at this time back then.  We could have enjoyed an hour long conversation.  Never the right time.  The trite saying in so true.  You’ll never know how much you’ll miss them until they are gone. A lesson that can not be learned until you cannot profit from the experience of learning it. All those times of utmost importance.  Too important to spend time together.  Now those lost times are the only things that seem important.  But she was the same way.  She had plans and goals and opportunities that couldn’t be intruded upon. It is not even guilt that fills the mind, just the thought of untouched opportunities.

         An old life.  Habits of speaking.  Words said time and again that mean little while they are forming in the air, but so full of a life when heard in the mind.  “What I’m talking about is . . . .”  How many times had she said that?  A nod from me, even though she couldn’t see it through the ‘phone. “Pay attention; what I’m saying is important”, is what she meant.  I heard all those important words that followed.  Just can’t remember them now. Just “what I’m talking about is . . . .”

         A drive to Norris.  Passing the apple orchard.  Apples Here Now! 

         Apples Here Now! We went there together 8 or so years ago.  Granddaddy drove.  Back when he could; before the mini-strokes.  Looking for a bargain but also enjoying time together.  The three of us, me, Granddaddy and Grandmama, picked through the “just bruised a little” bin for applesauce apples.  We didn’t need them grocery store perfect.  Just going to cut off the peel anyway.  Granddaddy was still in charge, then.  He talked with the manager; worked a deal.  We all left happy, the sweet smell of ripe apples filling our beings.

         Where does love live?  The ancients thought it was in the liver.  The place of abode is now our heart, the poet says. I don't believe him. My liver is of all places most desolate. Why else should I wrap my arms around it when I cry in abandonment?

         Driving down the road, in autumn, windows rolled down, sun slanting the way it only does in Fall. Why  does the smell of apples bring back such heartbreak memories. Are we all wrong? Does love live instead in the senses? The nose - those smells of rememberances? Or in the hearing of the mind?  Those words; thoughts of reality? Or is sound the essence of life?

         It’s been six months.  There’s the ‘phone again.