Emotion

I have regarded my condition in recent years with a smug pride. Since I returned to Texas in 2014 I have found a place to live, furnished my quarters adequately, and live a comfortable existence. Comfort, both in regard to physical circumstances and to my mental/emotional existence. I read of older folk having problems — especially those who live alone. And I take pride in my equanimity in my reclusive life style.

Until recently. During the past two or three months I have been unusually emotional.

I begin to mourn. Which I have previously avoided. But I feel sadness that is bothersome and distracting, thinking often of loved ones who are gone. Some of them departed for as long as twenty years. Why, now, do I grieve?

I ponder.

And then it comes to me.

The trigger — that intrusion onto my placid existence. . .

It seems so obvious. I should have recognized it sooner.

Not that it would have mattered. I would still have gone down the same slope.

Actually crying on occasion. Drinking a lot more than I have ever done in the past. Sometimes three drinks in a day.

But I will preservere.

(What seems like a carelessly misspelled word may be a neologism. Not that it matters, but I may be attempting to engineer a portmanteau)

That trigger referred to above would have been the death last November of my friend Carl. It's as if he opened a door that I had assiduously kept closed, secure against the storms of sadness. And through that open door came a flood of suppressed emotions.

I resolve to assert a stoic composure — I will not tolerate such juvenile diversions.

I hear Pop's voice — “Buck up, boy — men don't cry.”

Okay, Pop.