SONNET 66
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
_______
"When the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone." (Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Book)
I used to be that cat, walking by my wild lone, with all places alike to me, till I met Harvey. I became used to love, it became familiar, and then I became good at love, and then I became Harvey's familiar.
Now there's no point in being good at love; now nothing seems familiar. There is no one else and nothing else for me to do but resign myself that this is my life. There's nothing in it but work and kids and tears and lather rinse repeat. All places are alike for me, but my rambling days are over.
I have loved one man as well as I could. We had the happily part of it. I have written the book I promised that man I'd write. I wanted to see him hold it, and I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted the ever after part. Now there's the aftermath, after 23 years, a calculus of misery.
All places are alike to me, as the Cat says, and all places are miserable. I have tried as long as I can to put a good face on grief--well, not an excellent face, but at least not a tear-streaked miserable one--but I cannot stand it any more. I am crying more and more and feeling more and more, and doing less and less.
Being the outsider, the caterwauling cat, the one who's still alive, is so hard. I think it might be too hard for me. I continue to mourn, to eat my heart out. Crane's poem tells us, "Because it is bitter, and because it is my heart," and I have chewed on it long enough.
At my age, there's no chance of falling in love again, and I don't want anything else. I want nostos, I want domos, I want my fucking husband back. I don't want someone else's husband. I don't want someone else's life. I want those 23 years back. I want someone to smile at me when I walk in the door. I want to feel my heart beat just a little faster when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
I don't want work. I don't want books. I don't want a cat or a car or a new pair of cowboy boots. I don't want platitudes from my church about how widows are to be honored, I don't want compliments from my friends at work telling me that I'm still pretty and why I don't have a date they cannot understand, I don't want my parents telling me to buck up, to keep my chin up, pay my taxes, clean my house and stop crying about how lonely I am, and write a novel not those stupid poems because money is the most important thing and we have taught you nothing if you believe in words instead of numbers.
I want, one time more, to see Harvey, the way he was the last time I saw him, when he said at Sewanee, Pamela, be fearless. You can do this. Those were words that for two days, I believed. Or I believed that he believed. And then Cherie Peters is putting her arms around me and telling me, "Dear, your husband is dead."
Once upon a time I thought I could learn to love, to feel what others felt, to have a home. And I came in from the Wet Wild Roofs and I sat by the fire, and I learned to purr and to sheath my claws and I learned that I had a person, that I was a person, that me myself I was good enough.
I don't believe that person I was exists any more. And I don't like the person I am now. I don't go out in the woods and ramble or up in the trees and look around, or up on the rooftops to read any more. This person has a house. This person is homeless. This person has a heart. This person is heartless.
Lather rinse repeat.
