The Bloody Doors Off

Come over to the window, my little darling,
I’d like to try to read your palm.
I used to think I was some kind of Gypsy boy
before I let you take me home.
Now so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began
to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again

So Long Marianne, Leonard Cohen

I just wrote a condolence letter.

Expressing regret at not being able to attend my uncle’s funeral next week.

It’s the right choice, given circumstances.

Doesn’t mean I don’t feel some guilt.

And I realize now I should’ve called.

I should’ve called when I got the news.

Why haven’t I?

And now that I’ve sent the email, will that make a phone call awkward?

Goddammit.

Kevin would’ve called.

It’d be reflex.

The man is the saint among us brothers.

He tends to various members of family, helping with errands, groceries, etc. And I think, now that he’s retired, this has given Kevin even more time to lend a helping hand.

When he isn’t playing golf.

Wayne is the family man. He and Donna raised two boys who both made the decision to move to Alberta. And with no hesitation, the moment after he retired the house was sold and they were pulling up stakes to be with their kids and grandkids.

I wish we’d had that kind of relationship with our grandparents. I only remember visiting Grandpa Koster at his house (they had a pool) but I don’t remember him ever coming to Scarborough. And while we saw Grandma and Grandpa Kirby almost every Sunday, it wasn’t what Wayne and Donna have with their progeny.

And me.

The late bloomer. I had fun in my 20s, but didn’t come into my own until my mid-30s. And shortly after turning 55, I’ll have been married for three years. It took me until my 50s to settle down. Not like I hadn’t wanted to. Nearly did 20 years ago. And while I’m not where I’d like to be professionally, I’ll keep slogging it out until I do.

(I decided on a whim that I would try being nice to myself and see how it feels. I’m uncomfortable.)