In My Life

Oh, everything was real

~ Caitlyn Smith

I’ve loved them all…

Maybe in another life…

I’ve loved…

Loved them…

In my life…

All of them

Loved

Maybe in another life…

Maybe I

The bits and pieces of words that had once been a John Lennon song nobody wanted to sing because it was too sad: “In my life, I’ve loved them all.” Only the longest line wasn’t from the Beatles. Or the last one. Those words had stealthily joined the others, but it didn’t matter. We remembered the song as it was, accurately. We used to sing it, though it was hard to sing, in our younger days.

Those are great memories. I’m glad to have them.

There’s another song running through my mind now. It’s fairly recent, “maybe in another life” by Caitlyn Smith. She’ll make you cry, but has an incredible voice, so I like to sing it and when I do, I feel so fortunate at having escaped such a sad situation. The person in the song laments the ending of their relationship. I never have had to do that:

We were fireworks in the rain

Cigarettes and gasoline

I could see through the smoke

It was beautiful

And the way that you look at me

Made our love feel evergreen

We wandered off to a place

I had never known

Oh, everything was real

I may not be young anymore, but let me tell you about my life and you’ll see how much I’ve enjoyed it.

We’re sitting here full of the past and all the things we did since we were married. We had four children, all grown now and doing well. Two girls and two boys. They all went to college, too. We helped all we could, and now they’re all set in life with families of their own. I wish they lived closer, but we get together several times a year, so I won’t complain.

You retired from your job as a historian at the city library, but I’ll never retire from working as a writer and illustrator. It’s the sort of work that keeps a person going, keeps the imagination fresh. I work from home. You still read a lot and get invited to local museums and historical societies to give informal talks. You’re well-liked as a speaker, always have interesting things to say. I think my art and writing are improving with age, which is a comfort, you must agree.

We sure managed to travel a lot. It fit our lives really well once the kids were able to be on their own while we were away. You and I were both still working, naturally. Sometimes the trips were part of your job. Other times I attended a writers’ or artists’ retreat. Once or twice you attended an art workshop with me and each time we enjoyed ourselves. You were a better artist than you realized. 

For whatever reason, we covered a lot of miles despite our mututal fear of flying. When we could, we went by land. I always liked driving, but there were times you took over if I’d had enough. I remember one time we’d been in England and driving on the left had worn me out. We couldn’t find a hotel with a vacancy and kept going to the parking area where you wait to cross the Chunnel. I think that was in Folkestone but there are more romantic places like Maidenhead or the Fenlands or Stratford-upon-Avon. Of course there is nothing romantic about a parking lot at 3:30 A.M. when you’ve got one hour to catch a nap before going underground.

We’ve laughed about that trip. We’ve also laughed until we cried, remembering the escapades on a tour of the Mississippi River and a few more on the Danube. I wrote some good vignettes from the latter experience, and published them in a European travel journal, but there isn’t a lot to see along the Mississippi. Still, we ate well and there was good music on the boat. As I recall, we talked a lot about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.

One of my favorite cities was Amsterdam, but I really found Madrid to be polluted, noisy, and unsettling. I was robbed there, which might be the reason for the unfavorable impression. Venice was best in its literary image, but the city itself has that unfortunate stench. But I’m not going to sit here in my rocker going on and on about our adventures. 

You’re not saying a lot right now. Maybe you’ve drifted off while I’ve been droning on. I do have that bad habit of talking endlessly. People say I go into a lot of detail and I don’t know if that’s some sort of syndrome or disorder. Anyway, you were always the quieter of the two. You said things when you felt your opinion was required. Probably the historian in you. As an artist, I tend to react to stimuli and then I want to talk about them. So if you like, I’m happy to assume the task of telling our shared memories through all our years of being together.

We have memories about having guests over or taking a gift for a potluck dinner. You had a strange take on what constituted a salad, and after feeling really embarrassed on a couple of occasions, I carefully suggested I make them because I really enjoyed doing it. You were fine with that. We still laugh about my tactfulness, which you didn’t notice at the time.

It is hard to remember our numerous pets without feeling both happy and sad, as all pet-owners will understand. We have two lovely dogs named Grendel and Beowulf, who were no bigger than cats. We had lots of cats and named them after famous artists or writers. We talked about famous people, celebrities, who loved cats. As I recall, that included Hemingway, Picasso, and Colette. I might be mistaken about Picasso. Somebody told me about a Galician poet, Pilar Pallarés, who adores cats. I wish we could meet her, but I’m not sure if we could speak her language with her.

Anyway, you’re still not responding, so I’ll be quiet. Maybe you need to rest. I can handle the memories by myself. Believe you me, I don’t need much encouragement to get really wound up. We have had an exceptional life together.

Maybe in another life. 

You left me more than thirty years ago.

But you seem not to have noticed.

You hated traveling.

We never had any children for some reason.

I know the reason.

I was allergic to cats.

You never liked salads very much.

Maybe the good memories are still a possibility. 

Maybe.

In another life.