A leave taking

I am at my computer in the upstairs office. The light is off. I often write just by screen light. The room, which is about 14 by 17, is lined with bookcases, a couple of cat towers, printer, you know this kind of room.

There is a window to my back right, I face the door in proper Feng Shui positioning, and there is a window to my far right across the room. I am actually in the cubby of two bookcases one at my left shoulder against which I occasionally lean and the other, a few feet behind me. A quick push and I am jettisoned to the back shelves.

I feel safe. The rolodex, thesaurus, dictionary and reference books are on the left. My favorites are behind me: women’s issues, death and dying, I Ching, myths, religions, world history and a shelf of endless vitamin bottles through which I rummage on Sunday morning while organizing the weeks supply of pseudo health and vitality.

The curtains are drawn apart at the far right window. A tall votive candle stands in the middle of the windowsill. Obviously, I don’t want to set the house on fire. Nevertheless, I do want to leave it. It is a St. Joseph candle, the patron of carpenters. There is a belief that if you bury a statue of St. Joseph head down in the ground that a house will sell immediately.

We know that nothing is selling here on Long Island. I need all the help I can get to sell this place in which I have lived since 1972 but, I will not risk the indignation of St. Joe by putting him head down in the frozen earth of my front yard. Personally, it would not be my choice. Therefore, it is a candle bearing his image which burns against the windowpane creating it's own aura. I believe that he is pleased with me for attempting to preserve his dignity.

He is facing south out to the frozen tundra. Whenever I walk into the room or glimpse over to the infinitesimal flame I say, "the perfect buyer comes to me now under grace in a perfect way." That’s how I approach things. Hey, it takes all kinds.

It is 9 PM, quite windy, 20 degrees. Outside the trees are knocking against the window, and the streetlamps, candle light and lights of the homes across the street are all in concert flickering into the crystals of ice, which coat the window. It has snowed and rained for a couple of days and the roads have been rather iffy. There has been great discontent. I had to break into my car yesterday when it was 15 degrees. Ah! Winter!

I have the heat down like everyone else-we are all still attempting to negotiate our fuel contracts from nearly 5 dollars a gallon down to something respectable like 2 bucks. I am chilly so I go downstairs for a bourbon.

The house is old and squeaks and creaks. There are four, five and six story oaks around this house. One hovers directly over the roof above this room. As I hear the tinkle of the glistening bourbon over the ice the swish of the wind around the entire house makes me quake with trepidation. Every so often, I look at the walls around me and shout out loud, "I fear that I will die in this house." At times, I believe that I am married to this structure and that one night in a bazaar secret ceremony of which I was not privy, it grew limbs and entwined its branches into the cerebral hemispheres of my brain as well as the ventricles of my heart.

I will only leave it when I am supine, ashen, and without breath.

One does not take this wind lightly. When six story trees are stirred by such high winds, well what can I say-it is impressive. The sound is such that you can easily envision Father Death whipping his cloak off with a bullfighter’s flare, ensconcing you in it, thus forcing you to collapse into his irresistible grasp.

The girl cat is sitting at my feet as I sip my Jack Daniel’s. Now and again she gets up, extends her paws up on my knees and yawns to signify that it is time for a treat. She gets too many treats when I ‘m in this room.

She is slight and wiry, and though remote, is simultaneously needy.

This has been bummer of a year financially and rocky with a couple of relationships. I have not been writing, I purport to be a writer. Joke! Everyone I know is in crisis. Thankfully, we have not had a major terrorist event here. In addition, maybe our new president will be the key to positive change as he promised. At least the present administration will be put to rest.

I have mortal decisions to make. I am a senior citizen, there I’ve said it. It scares the hell out of me. Yet, when I speak to the dead at night I call them mommy and daddy.

Truth be told!

The bourbon feels good coursing through me. I can feel the vessels and muscles of my circulatory system open wide rushing the delivery of blood to my head. Almost immediately I feel my face flush then my chest and arms warm, placing me in a soothing state, my eyes want to close and I begin to drift away. "Just put yourself down for a respite." I leave the computer headed for the good night.

The votive candle has finally gone out. Three days.

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