Urn Walk

burial urn in snow

Before it snows again

The trip is on, the one I thought I’d make last fall, all the way to Keota, Iowa and the hillside cemetery where Crooked Creek runs through the woods. But the marker is finally in place beside her parents’ stone and I can place the urn myself. I’ve hired a grave digger name of Dennis Bean. “Make the check out to Bean and Bean,” my contact emailed. Turns out he’s in business with his cousin. That figures. Everyone I’ve dealt with up there has been open, kind, and helpful. It’s such a relief, so, well, human… I’ve been filled with epic purpose for the task. Still am, but now I see it marks the end of my old life. I still can’t think of her without remembering she isn’t coming back, so this scares me.

Kathy and I visited Keota many times over 44 years. Her father grew up there and played football in a leather helmet. His mother came from England with the sweetest accent. Not far from there is an Amish place called the Stringtown Store where women in bonnets sell bulk foods and treats. If you ask directions in Kalona, they’ll tell you to “turn right at the cheese silo” and don’t act dumb. We often stopped there on our way out of town to buy a few more kitchen knives and snacks or maybe a cherry pie if we were heading north to see her sister in Dubuque. Kathy’s uncle Tom, now deceased, ran the local bank for years but spent World War II as a bombardier in a B-24. He once had to kick a stuck bomb loose over the English Channel while straddling the open bomb bay doors. I can see that in a 20-year-old. If you survived you’d always have that with you. Can you feel the wind blast as the engines roar, hear the muffled shouts, see the glint of sunlight on the whitecaps far below?

It even looks a little like a bomb, too.


Wasn’t hard to find at all.

That’s Kathy in Wall Lake at the other end of the state in western Iowa—Andy Williams’ birthplace, by the way—at the house where she lived when her father ran the weekly Wall Lake Blade as editor, publisher, and sole employee. You probably ought to read this post from May 16, 2013:

This is the little house in Wall Lake, Iowa where my wife the classical pianist lived until she was three years old. We visited it on the way to Dubuque. Next door on the right is the house where an older woman lived whom she used to visit as a child. According to her, she’d just knock and walk right in. The woman owned a baby grand piano, which fascinated the little girl. One day she walked in, went over to the piano, and started playing the same note over and over. The woman was lying in bed and asked her please to stop because she wasn’t feeling well. The child was disappointed because she’d been imitating the ringing of a church bell and felt so proud: bong, bong, bong, etc. This was also the first time she’d ever touched a piano…

We stood on the sidewalk together looking at the house. As she told me the story, she shook and cried.


Cremation tag identifies the ashes.

The route I’ll take is the same we drove together dozens of times over the years. Eventually I got to know all the towns in Iowa she ever lived: Wall Lake, Harlan, Ottumwa, Des Moines, and Mount Vernon (Cornell College), north of Iowa City. Keota is just southwest of there. After spending the night in Nebraska, I’ll drive east to Washington in Keokuk County where I have a reservation at a former mom-and-pop motel like I swore I”d never fall for any more. (This in preference to the “Belva Deer Inn.”) The next morning I’ll wake up in a strange town, find some yellow roses, and drive 14 miles across the prairie to Keota. For all I know the hole’s already dug. “He will fill in the grave whenever you like and then will leave,” they said. Just me then, with the green grass and the breeze, kneeling at the grave stone I designed myself with both our names.

Isn’t it crazy, though, how I think I have this all worked out? Oh no.

Anything can happen, anywhere. That’s why I really want a miracle. A holy flash. Something that makes sense to me because I can’t believe a smile like that just goes away. She had the key to all the love that fills the universe and poured it out on me. When they brought her to the ED that last time, the doctor said she’d go “within the hour.” Even so, she lasted another whole day and a half with me standing or sitting by the bed the whole time touching, talking, listening to her breathing. When I ask myself why it took so long, I realize she simply didn’t want to leave me.


2007 Vibe we bought new for her.

I used to tell her how much I loved her spirit. Told her that again today, in fact. Maybe something new will happen now that spirit’s all there is. We both deserve it. There’s still so much to do by way of cleaning up the wreckage that I can’t accomplish in my sorry state. I’m so afraid that I’ll forget the way it was, but I need this not to hurt so much. That’s why I’ve been taking the urn for “walks.” The movement is important to remind me that it isn’t rooted here. The urn is going away, John and Kathy’s final road trip. We had so many everywhere and shared a thousand thrills. Yes, it’s riding in the passenger seat. I may be weird but she would like that. I’ll have it in a box, though, strapped in with her red beret on top and a little wooden skeleton from Mexico, and I’ll be dressed to kill. Every door slam will be conscious.

Were you right about me, Katie Jane?

What will I do with the time that’s left?

Who will step out of the car when I get “home”?

Kathy Loved Canada Geese

I guess they know.

Ten days ago I decided for the hundredth time to go on living and went for a drive. At least I knew where I wanted to go and had a mission. Dropping a thousand feet down off the mesa to the bottom of the canyon of the Rio Grande at Pilar is worth it anyway. When we had a dentist in Embudo, just a few miles from where I shot that video, we’d take the 20-minute thrill ride just to get a cleaning. I never could believe how lucky we were.


Dixon, NM. Also just a few miles from Pilar.

My destination this time was the Taos Junction Bridge across the Rio Grande. To get there you drive to Pilar, take the only road there is—it goes along the river—and wind your way to the end of the pavement. On the other side of the rio the road turns into rocks and dust, climbing steeply up the canyon wall with hardly any barriers to keep poor fools from driving off the cliff. Before the bridge, there’s a road that takes you to a campground and a trailhead. You can also take Picuris Trail straight from the bridge to the rim of the canyon 700 feet up and feel like you’re a hero. Those 1.4 miles are what I had in mind, to see if I could do it after not exercising for a week because of snow and mud. Right away I hit a stretch of solid ice and had to inch back down to hike along the road instead. This was just for exercise, however. The mission was to scatter some of Kathy’s ashes in the Rio Grande.

On the way, I ambled off-trail as I like to do and followed a small arroyo up the side of the canyon. I was sheltered from the breeze, the sun was shining, there was no one else around—it’s always like that here—and all was magical. That’s what New Mexico means for me, being out in Nature to have your near-religious experience or bleed out from a compound fracture. Actually, those could be the same. At any rate, a few yards past where I took the picture underneath I accidentally found another trail and followed it down to the road to get my bearings.

To my amazement and joy, a sign at the road said the trail I’d just descended would take me back to Picuris Trail, likely at a point above the trees and icy patches! One more U-turn and I tried again. Walking past where I’d emerged and hiked up earlier, I soon found myself in a strange and wondrous small oak forest part-way up the east side of the canyon. Nowhere in over 20 years of living in New Mexico had I ever encountered such a thing. It shocked and stirred me, frankly. What kind of oaks they were I couldn’t tell you, but there were oak leaves on the rocky ground and I was swept away to other places, other lives. The scrub oak “forests” that spring up in burned-over areas higher in the mountains produce tangled masses of deciduous brush you’d never think were oaks but for the leaves. These were more substantial, tall, with trunks as wide as half a foot or more. Gnarly weird but definitely trees.

I spent over an hour walking slowly over perhaps a quarter mile of trail, if that, photographing everything. It was just that thrilling to be in a different ecological niche from sagebrush high desert. Then I saw the rocks: almost every boulder had a hole in it. One, two, three, or many. Some of them were large enough for a person to curl up inside and go to sleep if you were drugged. Then I realized I was looking at frozen one-time boiling magma. When the Earth opened up some billion years ago in these parts, it would have been horrendous. So much molten rock, bubbling with trapped gases, popping, exploding, entombing the landscape over vast distances until a fragile almost hairless ape went walking with his phone. I call this picture “BirdDog” and I’m sure you understand.

So mysterious and strange, these lava sculptures
But I hadn’t forgotten the mission. Almost, due to self-protective rules that may apply, and there wasn’t that much daylight left. The river was the thing though. The Rio Grande, where we drove up and down so often to observe the grandeur and the wildlife. Bighorn sheep, coyotes, eagles, herons, migrating waterfowl of many kinds. (There must be people in Taos who don’t know or care that you can drive down to the river and see half a dozen species any time they’re on the move. I’m not one of them.) There always seemed to be some Canada geese as well. More than one time in the canyon, we’d seen bald eagles in pursuit of geese although I never saw a takedown. Back in Maryland we lived out in the country, where huge flocks went feeding in the corn fields in the fall and stayed there through the winter, pecking in the frost. They were something of a totem animal for us, the way their comings and goings marked the change of seasons and their honking filled the air at dusk or early in the morning. Life in Kent County revolved around the geese and guiding was a local occupation, but for us the birds were messengers of the gods and not a thing to shoot.


The Rio Grande from several years ago in early fall.

It’s been so terrible for me, so anguishing and sad, realizing that she’s gone. It makes no sense that I could be this old and find myself alone except that this is how it works. Someone usually goes first unless you both perish from an “act of God” or in a stupid accident. The catastrophe I’d have left behind would be the cruelest fate, though maybe that’s unfair. Our siblings could have gathered, found where all the necessary things were hidden, taken care of her—or would they have even tried? Sometimes you just can’t. My sister and a friend here offered me assistance and I wouldn’t have it! All I know is, it’s been ten whole months and I’m almost just as lost as ever.

Today was difficult. I thought about how proud I was for all those years to be with her, how beautiful and talented she was, how sophisticated, passionate, in love with life. All the qualities and experiences she brought with her and how bereft I am not having her around. How does something like that just disappear?!? Marrying Kathy was the greatest thing I ever did. I used to tell her all the time. I told her that today, in fact, before I sat down here to write, and heard inside my head: and I was proud to be with you… Some of us don’t comprehend so well at first. Watch the video again, it’s there.


NOTE: This post at Substack with full-width images. Also new at OpenSea:
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NEW MEXICO MY HEART

For Kathy

JHF at Ute Mountain

Opening the heart

“Oh Lord,” I yelped as I came around the bend. The road was nearly blocked by half-buried rocks the size of watermelons. I hit the brakes, pulled the Dakota into low, and did the best I could climbing over big black chunks of lava from the Pleistocene. The constant pitching left and right had already caused the shoulder strap to saw into my neck and I’d unhooked it. The 20-year-old truck had honker six-ply tires but I still went slow enough to stop if I heard scraping and we made it through unscathed. By “we” I mean the Dodge and me. My honey was represented by a gorgeous scarf I’d hung behind my seat, her red beret, a wooden Day of the Dead skeleton ornament, and a Japanese tea can with a portion of her ashes. When I’d finally driven as far up the mountain as I dared, I turned the truck around to face the sun, lowered the window, and killed the engine. I grabbed the can, stepped out, and tossed some powder in the breeze. “I love you, Kathy,” I said, looking to the sky with open arms, and turned to dust in four directions. Several times I did this, breaking into sobs (which I did not expect), then climbed back in and ate my lunch washed down with hot sweet coffee. There might have been a little Kathy on my tuna sandwich.

This was the terminus of my backroads quest, partway up the lower slopes of the extinct volcano where the junipers and piñons start, 8,300 feet above sea level. I could see the tall straight trunks of ponderosa pines in a near-vertical canyon high above me. It was 45°F and sunny. Crazy cirrus feathers splashed across the blue. Coming up I’d seen a flock of several dozen bluebirds, moving just ahead along the road where hardly anybody ever goes. This was only my second time but I had never come this far. No wonder on the one hand, how could we not now, on the other. After I finished my lunch, I got out again and walked a little way to take some pictures. I could see the twisting canyon of the Rio Grande far below. As far as I could make out, there was not a sign of human habitation but the rocky road, and I was overcome with joy. “Can you see this, honey?” I asked, knowing full well that she could, and cried again. The oscillation of emotion was exhausting and a validation, like the bridging of two worlds. I stood there in suspension till the wind began to blow and made me cold. There’s just something about mountains, you can tell that they’re alive. Kathy would have understood and had a hand in this. There was not the slightest doubt.

I’d come up with the idea to drive out to Ute Mountain as a way to celebrate the Solstice, since I wasn’t doing Christmas this year. It doesn’t feel at all like Christmas anyway with Kathy gone. For all our time together, in truth it was really just us each December. When our parents were alive and far away, we always traveled, usually by road trip. The journey was the main event, the days in Iowa or Arizona interludes along the way. During our years in Maryland, Kathy had Christmas concerts to rehearse and play and there were parties with our friends. Then everyone we knew would disappear, cocooning with their families. We’d shoot out of town at high speed heading west and have insane adventures, dodging semis in the blizzards on the way to find a motel room in Indiana. No internet or cell phones, no way to check the weather at your destination or look up lodging on a website. We grabbed a local paper when we stopped for gas and checked the printed weather maps and prayed. I kept a scrap of paper in my wallet with phone numbers from the year before so I could call ahead if there were vacant pay phones at the rest stops, otherwise we winged it. Pulling into Des Moines to stay with Kathy’s folks was always a relief with certain protocols and reassuring sameness. Like re-entering 1956, perhaps, with overheated houses in the snow and happy female chatter in the kitchen. Pecan “tassies,” lemon curd, extra money for the paper boy, endless football on TV or radio in the little den that used to be her room while I gamed our getaway between the storms.

Basically though, she and I were all the family we really needed, especially after we moved to Taos and the lights went out in Iowa. (Arizona lay under boycott.) Five or six years ago I left a note for her one evening where she’d find it in the morning when she made her tea. This was after yet another depressing real estate experience where we’d visited a house for sale, come back to the old adobe, looked each other in the eye, and both said “no.” Written boldly on an index card and initialed with a flourish, it read:

Wherever you are
Wherever you and I are together
That is my home

The note disappeared before I got up. I knew she’d seen it, but I soon moved on and never thought of it again. A week after I closed her eyes at Holy Cross, I found it in her dresser in a drawer she opened every day…

A week or so before I “decided” to drive out here, I’d been through a terrible time, unable to write for more than a month, making progress with my art but feeling old and left behind. I was worried about my health as well with heart rates well below alleged normal. I consulted with my doctor, who didn’t seem concerned and said my heart was slow but otherwise okay. (“The highest reading I have on file for you is 60!”) He ordered up some blood work1 and sent me on my way. But for me the main thing was the grieving. Who knew I’d feel so bad some eight months later? The loneliness and loss of intimacy had staggered me. I felt like I was sliding down into a hole I’d never climb back out of and just die. It happens. After seeing Dr. White, however, it occurred to me that I should also talk to Kathy. Hang on.

It wouldn’t be the first time. The voice is very quiet and sounds like her. While I hear it in my head, spatially I’d say it comes from near my heart inside my chest. There’s better “reception” out of doors sometimes. Maybe it’s the sky, or sun, or birds. Who knows. I started off by telling her I loved her, missed her so damn much, and just how fucking lost I was. None of this was easy, but before I’d even finished, I heard clearly:

Be proud of yourself. Share the beauty and the joy.

Those are not my words. As a strategy for coping, I never would have thought to tell someone to “share the beauty and the joy.” I mentioned this on Twitter and a psychotherapist in Santa Fe (@shrinkthinks) shot back, “You’d better listen!” I made a little joke about how simple it was. “It is brilliant advice!” she said. Since then “share the beauty and the joy” has been a mantra for me and a demon killer. The point is not to ANSWER anything but TRUST… The heart again! You see?

The power of the place I was.

The bridging of two worlds by letting go.


[NOTE: A free subscription to my Substack newsletter (see below) will bring you this post and all other JHFARR.COM posts with larger inline photographs and different formatting you may find easier to read. The complete posts are also delivered directly to your email if you subscribe to GODDAMN BUFFALO at Substack and look better on your phones. You are most welcome to continue reading everything right here, of course! I always publish first at Substack, however, because the writing interface is simple and fast, so there is usually a short delay before I get around to reposting here but the content is identical. JHFARR.COM is also the complete searchable web archive of all my online writing and goes back years. There’s nothing comparable at Substack. – JHF]

Reading Angel Minds

geranium

Bitter, blessed, and hopeful

It’s been so long, I hardly know how to write. I often feel ashamed of grieving now, imagining the world has had enough of me or wondering if I’m insane. From time to time I feel all right and even hopeful. There’s a hint of some excitement in the photographs I’m taking with my iPhone 13 Pro Max. I like editing images on the M1 iMac I bought myself. I’ve lost 20 pounds and built up my old man arms by lifting heavy dumbbells. Most days I walk a quick two miles. I finally cleaned out Kathy’s studio. Her childhood piano is safely stored. That assignment I completed only yesterday.

This morning I felt happy that all I had to do to today was go to Albertson’s for groceries. But afterwards, as I made the left turn from the highway and up the hill on the narrow road that runs beside the 400-year-old chapel where I’ve been driving up and down for nearly 20 years, it hit me once again and I was sobbing, hot tears running down my face: Kathy, Kathy, oh my Kathy, baby doll, my one and only love forever. I have no wife. I’m old and this is it, there’ll never be another you. I love you so much honey and I always will, forever till the end of time. My only one, my everything, my Kathy. I know you had to go and you’re all right but how I miss you…


Last week I went to have my teeth cleaned. The best, most qualified dental hygienist I’ve ever had in all my life had moved away to Albuquerque. Of course she did. Unless you live for skiing, why would anyone stay here?1 Kathy used to call the dental office the “Taj Mahal” because of the nice fake leather sofas, high ceilings, beautiful paintings, and how much it cost. They go through hygienists (and dentists!) so fast, you almost never have the same one twice. Seems they mostly hire them green and then before you know it, poof, they’re gone. The dentists stay a while until they move away to set up their own practices in bigger towns. I’ve had the same young guy for almost two years now and that’s a record. The business just hired a friend of his from Wisconsin and of course the bio mentions skiing.

What the hell am I here for?

My new hygienist was another very competent Latina. (They all are and I feel so privileged.) Since I’m eating differently these days, my teeth need little cleaning. She poked around, did some scraping, told me everything looked healthy and was probably more relieved than I was. Chatty, too. At one point she asked me if I was looking forward to the holidays and you can guess where that led. This is how I know I’m still in mourning, not the sudden storms that shake me when I least expect it but the rush to tell a perfect stranger how I feel. She took it very well. I said she didn’t need to know this, she said no that’s fine, go on, and I began, “The thing about being with someone for over 40 years and then they’re gone is…” at which point I got choked up and couldn’t talk, but she encouraged me and I continued with a cracking voice, “What happens then is, you don’t know who you are…”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she grasped both my hands and quietly recited a long and beautiful prayer. I’m sure it came from church. Not being Catholic, I wouldn’t know just what to call it but it was oh so sweet and spoken quickly like a running stream. I was very touched and told her how grateful I was. My instant loving sister from another world delivering a blessing I had never heard. So lucky. What a gift.

Maybe this is what I’m here for. I was there for Kathy, after all.

Bit by bit I’m learning to be kinder to myself because I see how badly wrecked I’ve been. If I push too hard, my mind breaks and my memory’s affected. Maybe I’m getting senile, too. I misplace things a lot. The other day I left my truck keys in the mailbox lock—they stayed there a full 24 hours, waving in the breeze. Recognizing negativity and fear is helpful. If I see them, I can let them go, like worrying about not writing or my languishing NFT project. But worrying of any kind is deadly now. I simply can’t afford it. Nothing could be worse than losing Kathy except throwing what I have away for stupid reasons. She’d be so upset as well. Calm down! Every now and then I do.

I don’t see how I can remain in Taos. It hurts too much just driving down the road. Yet who knows what I’m calling toward me? What if I had a hot rod and a ranch? I’ve never been to Argentina, either. Kathy always said, “You can do anything you want…” If it was okay then, it must be okay now. Winter’s on the way though and I need to pay attention. I’m too damaged to carry on as usual guilty and untrusting.

Late last night, something deep unclenched. I wanted to take a day trip for the first time since the plague years started and my honey died. Over the pass to Eagle Nest and on to Cimarron, I thought. Out past Philmont Scout Ranch, shoot some photos of the pronghorns where the foothills meet the plains. If the beasts are hiding, Cimarron is full of terrifying truth. The first time we drove around the place, Kathy had to shake off primal childhood fears from darkest Iowa. Small town poverty and deprivation, dreams deferred forever. But drive a couple miles to where the wind blows all the way to the horizon and the raptors soar. In the old days you could maybe see the Comanches come in time to send the brown girls home and hide your horses in the mountains…

There have been other signs. Almost as if I’m being fitted for a new integrity. This could be her doing, I don’t know. When it’s bad, it’s worse than anyone imagines. On the other hand I want new clothes, not a common indicator of the end.

After sharing a life with Kathy for most of my time on Earth, including 18 years here in this old adobe, arranging the household as weirdly as I want is oddly comforting. Some things that we always kept in cupboards sit out now in plain view. My great-grandmother’s solid 19th century utensils are so much better than the stainless steel ware from Pier One. (She was using the old knives and forks all this time in her studio!) I’ve moved lamps and paintings, taken some away and added new ones. While half the house is still a tragic mess of piled-up clothes and deferred maintenance, the half that isn’t is an affirmation. I can leave my laptop wherever I want. Play loud music at 3:00 a.m. She always said I could, but I was too afraid to take her at her word.

I’ll drive to Iowa in the spring to bury the ashes. Our grave marker is already there beside her parents. I have a strong feeling I won’t be here by summer. Something will be very different then, I know that. Bigger too, I think. Wilder, joyous.

Like you always wanted, sweetheart. Like you always saw in me.

Allowing Everything

Colorado Rt. 10

Catching Up With Truth

The time of greatest danger may be past. Even so, I broke down twice this morning. Not long but solid, aching face and all. I’ve learned to let it hit me like a breaker at the beach. Sometimes I get murdered as I’m walking past her English “gram’s” cherry dresser, the one we carried back from Iowa to Maryland in my ‘65 VW bus along with all the fancy hats from never married great-aunt Emily. It’s chest-high with a Chimayó weaving, the perfect height for me to sob on by the Japanese jewelry chest and music box that holds her pearls and rhinestone concert necklace. She always knew to dress up right for her performances and I was so damn proud.

I haven’t been able to write for weeks. I felt like I had nothing left to live for, not depression so much as conviction. It was simply logical. There will never be another Katie Jane and I’m too old to find one. The loneliness is crushing. I wanted to grow old together, not be left here all alone. It hits me at the oddest moments. What the fuck, you know? What happened?!? Everything I had was Kathy. That was way more than enough and now it’s gone, like old cartoons with someone hanging in the air.


Five days before 9-11 (2001).Temporary housing in the guesthouse in Arroyo Seco after a promised rental fell through. Everyone we knew was still immortal.

“Death will fuck you up and set you up 💀💀💀❤️❤️☯︎☯︎☯︎,” I tweeted recently. It’s true. A couple people I respect went out of their way to tell me how amazed they were that I was dealing with all this and couldn’t imagine what they’d do themselves. Well yes, I guess I have been. Not my first time watching someone die, though this was utterly beyond the pale and changed me for all time. I did the things, they burned her up and put her ashes in a box. I sold her grand piano. Working entirely through texts and emails, I designed a grave marker, ordered the pink granite stone, and arranged the installation in the dark brown dirt of eastern Iowa where her parents and the lady with the cherry dresser rest. That hasn’t happened yet but soon. And in the interim, I found the perfect urn. I’m so relieved because I know she’d like it.

You’d never guess where I acquired this. Heavy cast brass (five pounds) from India, lacquered, with a screw-on top. I wanted that because of needing to add things as I thought of them. A note, perhaps, or jewelry, or magic charms, wildflowers I pick along the road to Iowa in the spring. Yes, spring. I was going to head up to Keota this month but everything’s delayed and the weather can turn brutal in November. The same for April, frankly.

The subject is already too macabre or insane. However, what I think I’ll do is transfer the ashes to the urn packaged in a sturdy plastic bag for neatness’ sake (minus some to scatter in a favorite spot), set it on the counter or a coffee table, and talk to her all winter. It’s been done, believe me. Whenever I do take off, the urn is riding safely strapped down in the passenger seat like old times. My sister-in-law suggested I buy one for myself while I was at it—brilliant, if you ask me—so a red one just like this is coming in on Wednesday. The plan, if you’re still with me here, is to have my urn sitting on my desk for however many years to kick me in the head so I make Kathy proud. I never needed thoughts like these before and wish I didn’t now, but people say I’m good at this. Perhaps I am.


Kathy from the Rift Valley Trail at Taos Valley Overlook in the Rio Grande del Norte National Monument. Live like this every day, we’re not here long.

It’s never over, is it. You see the OpenSea links (click on captioned photos). That’s my new game, with the photos and the writing. I know I’m skilled beyond the dead wife chores that give me strength to be her man the way I always was. I’m spending money on the things I want.


(She shouts)

There’s a brand-new yellow M1 iMac on my desk to edit images, videos, audio, and lay out books. A gold iPhone 13 Pro Max is on the way. I put new tires on the car. I have a golden keyboard. If only that were all we needed. One can still screw up, of course.

It’s cold. Fear of the unknown, wreckage everywhere. The last six weeks have been the worst of all, so bad I’d go to bed afraid that I was dying of my broken heart. That’s why I couldn’t write and wouldn’t read a thing that wasn’t on a screen. Stayed up till 4:00 a.m. like a goddamn human moth stuck onto the Twitter feed. Four hours of sleep and stagger through the morning, though I did try taking care of business while the sun was up. Visited her studio, measured the other piano that I mean to keep, talked to movers, threw out old tax returns and such. I’ve made a start and also done some crazy shit. So scared of catching COVID on the Iowa trip I figured I’d be taking in October, I drove to Colorado and lied at Walmart to get my third Moderna shot. “Is this your first?” Why, yes. No one else was getting vaccinated, either! The pharmacy had Pfizer, Moderna, J&J, just walk right in, no waiting or appointments. (Here in the Land of Enchantment, you still can’t get Moderna boosters.) They gave me a flu shot, too.

My sister Mary from Tucson visited for a few days. She’s coming out of retirement to go back to her nursing job in Texas and we talked about real things. She was excited about taking control again a year and a half after her divorce. Dare to hope and feel, you know. It was rough for me the first day. The second day I loosened up a bit. By the time she left, I felt better than I had in weeks.


Kathy on the deck in Ranchos. The GODDAMN BUFFALO collection at OpenSea is dedicated to her love & courage. How I miss her. Oh my love.

Apparently I breathe. The blood still pumps, the gift of life remains.

It does? But why—oh, God! I don’t have to die because my Kathy did. If this doesn’t cross a barrier, she and I have both hiked right up to it. I couldn’t save her, but I didn’t kill her. For all the shame I’ve felt for being such a baggage-laden piece of work while she was still alive, she doesn’t blame me now and never did!

Not once. Not ever.

Fear of nothing!

Punishment is self-delivered.

We aren’t what we think we are.

Everything’s all right.

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