Ah, yes. There are days when what I want, what I really really want, is to sit on the seat where he sat under the overgrown ficus tree, (home to my resident hummingbird), wrapped in a towel, still heatfelt (sic) from the jacuzzi, aglow with calm and peace, while I listen via my unsophisticated iPhone to the words of Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road/Song of Myself, so artfully illuminated by the unlikely Bill Murray and I know that “we must not stop here, however sweet these laid up stores, however convenient this dwelling, , , “
Don’t EVER feel sorry for me. When I linger in the memories and I contemplate our fleeting, I am in no way melancholic. I thrust my consciousness into the question. That certainty has left the building is not in error. It’s what I liked about Tolstoy when I was a searching teen. He had a quote about seeking truth, which I could never find again, but which bore into me like it was part of my DNA. If it doesn’t exist within the kernel of unvarnished honesty, it’s true worth is tainted.