c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(11-25)
Being disabled has meant that my daily routine consists of fewer chores as a matter of course. This streamlining of tasks is something rooted in necessity, but also spurred by a realignment of life priorities that inevitably comes with racking up more years in service. In the manner of an old vehicle, my body has become balky at times. Uncooperative, and resistant to being in motion. When needed, I am still able to get around and accomplish goals that are of a top-line priority. Yet otherwise, I am content with my role as a single component in the stream-of-consciousness. I do not need praise or accolades from others. To be sentient and alive is enough. Sometimes however, I need to make short trips around my rural area. Generally, these are for the purpose of gathering groceries, visiting doctors, or procuring medicines. I rarely travel simply for pleasure, in modern times. Additionally, I try to stay close to my home base, always. I live in a neighborhood which is west of Route 534, and south of Geneva.
Recently, I had to visit the pharmacy at Giant Eagle, located on South Broadway Avenue. I have stayed with this small depot for many years, because of the caring approach to waiting on customers that they provide. And, their expert command of medicinal information. With seasonal concerns in mind, and a list from my family physician on one of her appointment cards, I showed up at the counter, despite having no prescriptions waiting. Something rare enough that it made me feel slightly embarrassed for adding to the rush of consumer traffic.
I had no difficulty in explaining my desire to get vaccinations that were needed. My only challenge was with filling out paperwork on a clipboard, which required that I sneak down an aisle, to a kiosk of reading glasses. There, I was able to temporarily employ a stylish set of frames and lenses that brought the printed matter into focus. I took comfort from the fact that no one seemed to pay attention to my clandestine act of borrowing. After a brief interlude, I reckoned that my scribbled entries were legible enough to be readable. So, I returned the document to a side window in the department, and got back in line.
I was riding in an Amigo shopper cart, an electric workhorse that made getting around the supermarket possible, despite normally walking with two canes. While lingering next to a display of hanging apparel, with local sports themes displayed proudly, I listened to the music service that provided soothing, background noise. Familiar songs from the 70s, 80s, and 90s played on an endless loop. This wi-fi stream of entertainment put me at ease. I was not anxious about being poked in both arms, for a good cause. I trusted in the staff to help protect the measure of good health with which I had been blessed.
But as I waited patiently, a tune written by Robert Smith of English band, ‘The Cure’ began to echo from speakers in the ceiling. I had heard this track many times over the years, and held no particular connection to its lyrics or intended meaning. But suddenly, my thoughts drifted to the fact that my sister had passed away from pancreatic cancer, late in the month of October. Literally, only a short span before my visit. My lips began to tremble, and I felt tears pooling in both eyes. This reaction seemed completely idiopathic, not caused willfully, or by a specific link between the song and my lost sibling.
I had to grip the handles of my battery-powered mule, in an attempt to steady myself. I did not want this odd moment of grief to be exposed publicly. In particular, in front of the pharmacy manager, who I counted as a friend.
“Whenever I’m alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I’m alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Whenever I’m alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I’m alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again
However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you
I will always love you...”
I was completely unprepared for this emotional outburst. It came swiftly and without any warning. I had not even been thinking of that sad event when navigating the store, and interacting with familiar members of the crew. But there it was, a connection between memories of old, and an unspoken hint of tragedy.
My sister had been relatively healthy for over 60 years, or so it seemed to the rest of our brood. She was simple and elegant in her own philosophy. Someone who endured challenges without complaints or dramatic protestations. She was steadfast in practicing a Christian faith, and took her marriage vows as a serious promise made before God. She did not drink alcohol, smoke tobacco or marijuana, and kept her language resoundingly clean. Her stewardship of the family, two brothers, three children, and a loving grandson, provided an underpinning for everything we enjoyed. She was notable for cooking and baking treats for neighbors, friends, and fellow worshipers at her church. In all, someone who aced the fine art of living with skill, and love for all. I could not match that level of kindness or conviction.
Her demise put me in a funk because, admittedly, I could not claim to follow such a noble path. My own journey had been plagued with failed marriages, career shifts, homelessness, bankruptcy, and bad decisions. I did not keep quiet when things went wrong. This unpredictable manner made some people in my orbit observe that I could be like the literary team of ‘Jekyll and Hyde.’ Only in retirement and solitude had I reached a point of maturity that better served my personal goals.
My genetic counterpart had the courage and wisdom of our father, who was a member of the clergy. Something she used frequently to herd all of us along as her benefactors. It caused me to celebrate having her as a hub for our group. And, to mourn when she was taken too soon, by her devastating affliction.
Somehow, I managed to dry my eyes, and compartmentalize what I felt in my gut, while getting processed by the Giant Eagle pharmacy. I hid any evidence of being rattled. Yet afterward, as I sat in my car outside, the unique phrasing and melody of that Cure composition remained in the air. I heard it all the way back home, as if it still played on the dashboard radio.
For a creative writer, only one release exists for such taxing moments. The act of translating them into print, for future review. To that end, I offer this confession with humility, and gratitude.
Yes, my sister, I will always love you.
Hugs :(
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