Smells of Potatoes

After having bid Claire a tearful goodbye, I sat, so alone, staring wistfully into space on an airport chair, which, by the way, are surprisingly ergonomic, when an Irishmen intercepted my gaze. Stole it, in fact, by smiling stupidly into my eyes until I noticed him. He plopped down next to me and the smell was instantly overwhelming. The potato famine, I assure you, is over. This man had gorged himself on (bathed in?) potatoes. Immediately he started to speak of politics. Why is it that such men always talk of politics? To the rest of the world it is embarrassingly clear that this fat, spittle-flecked Irishmen could not be more out of touch with the political climate in America, and yet he expounded upon it. "Fookin Hilary... (Gallic muttering...) goin on out eh?" I smiled and nodded, as one should. He continued. The smell was overwhelming, like nothing I'd experienced before. "' 'Ell you get out there, you fookin lie eh? Bill comes in...heh heh...teaches her 'ow..." Was he waiting for a response? No, he didn't need me. "Calls her, says ay, fookin French out there... (Gallic cursing...) come out smellin a fookin roses." No idea what was just said. Smile and nod? Bingo.
My eyes water, I've suffered several shaming facial blows by the man's yellow saliva, I can't go on. Jesus, who I've since started believing in, came to my aid. Another Irishmen with a horn, the instrument mind you, approached my Irishmen from behind. They embraced. My Irish enquires after the other Irish's horn, which is not even in its case, as luggage should be, but brightly, shiningly naked. He responds with a playful toot. My Irishman laughs. My eyes reconnect with space.

The Savages

My grandmother, Nana, Bette to her peers, is reaching the end of her life. This weekend, the hospice has declared, my grandmother will die. It's saddening, sure, but less so than the two years she has just endured. In a twisted way her death is good news. The end is the end, and this is the end, but it's been such a long one. Everyone dies, circle of life, she had a good run, whatever one says in these situations, just won't apply to a life that has been unnaturally extended and reduced. Her end was prolonged, and that's what saddens me; the medically enhanced struggle for a life that should have ended. But, well, she had a good run, circle of life, right? Everyone dies. What can I say? I'll struggle just as she did. We all will. Tubes, catheters, respirators, we don't care so long as it's not the end. Well done Bette Turney. Nana. This is not your eulogy, but if it were I could sincerely say that you had a good run, hopefully it was an enjoyable one.

You Bring the Sunshine With You

I told Claire I love her. Whispered it into her ear, in fact, the morning of her birthday. It came to me all of a sudden to say it, I did, and found I might have meant it. She gave my arm a squeeze, my lips a kiss, and remained silent. I didn't mind. The moment felt good, and minutes later she said the same words into my ear that I'd blown into hers.
The airport goodbye was terrifically sad, the stuff of movies.
I miss her.