Losing

Part of getting older is losing things. If I can keep a set of sunglasses for more than a month these days, it is a miracle.

Part of getting older is losing people.

Last summer I ended a thirteen-year stint in my workplace. It was time to go; I was burnt out on that kind of work. But I lost a whole community of people.

This past fall, a friend and mentor of twenty five years passed away of Parkinson's. I was the person who pointed out to him his strange new gait years ago and told him to have it checked out. He was a man whom I knew would always be around in some form or other if I needed him. And he would also tell me the blunt truth. I miss him.

This past winter, another friend died, of a recurrence of cancer she had beaten some fifteen to twenty years previous. She was a wonderfully down-to-earth woman with warmth, brains, love of life and a great sense of humor. I miss her.

When I was home to see my family, my father's dementia was so advanced that he no longer knew who I was. He just looked at me as if I were not there. So in a way, he is already gone for me.

Two weeks ago, a woman who is like a sister to me, my closest female friend, left town to go back to her home after a wonderful two-year local stint close by me. Although I was not aware of it, having her here was like having family around, especially my deceased sister who died suddenly in 2004. And having her leave was hard. Still is. Town seems emptier without her. I miss her.

And now I have lost, well, I don't exactly know what to call him. That was part of the problem. A lover. A friend. A playmate. A lost-and-found buddy. A flawed and ordinary and splendid man. All of those and something more. But he made me supremely happy. And God, God, do I miss him.

I am tired, very tired, of losing.

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