I was a weird child. One of the first songs I ever memorized -and played over and over again- was Don McLean’s “American Pie.” Even a three year old who reads the dictionary is going to have a tough time with the historical references and metaphor in that song.
So, a dirge. Try explaining to a three year old what a dirge is when said three year old has never really seen death or mourning or loss. I may not have understood the meaning of a dirge then, but I get it all too well now.
This morning I had one of those lightning bolt sort of feelings that I am going to die abandoned and alone. My son, who opposed my marriage and hasn’t spoken to me in three years, could give two shits less whether I live or die. I don’t regret marrying Bruce, far from it, but my son simply can’t process the thought of his mother being in a non abusive relationship. He also didn’t appreciate Bruce reminding him of some of the liberties he has taken with his mother’s resources. I will leave that thought there.
The bottom line will ultimately be: Guess I gotta sing my own dirge.
There’s an odd comfort in that even though I can still go along with Dylan Thomas and his entreaty to go raging against the dying of the light.
I’m not dead yet, but in some ways I feel dead. Many doors are permanently closed and I need to be OK with that.
The world is different once the dirge is sung.
ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL: 