The Emptying Nest
Pam and I are beginning to deal with
empty nest syndrome, now that my childhood is
roaming Wyoming and Montana as a renowned
cowboy-Indian-detective; while Pam's childhood
is happily married to the prince of a small,
scenic nation in a misty corner of Europe.
My youth is also self-supporting now just
barely. He doesn't often write, but last we heard,
he was living alone in a cabin in the Northern woods,
without phone, TV or radio, working on honing
his perfect mind while sitting for hours in full Lotus.
Pam's youth is hitching and hosteling around the world,
painting water buffalos and cathedrals, learning
the dirty words in exotic languages and mailing us
amusing, nicotine-stained postcards that
bemoan with many underlined words her latest
lost lover or enthuse over her newest.
My maturity is just getting established
(we still store boxes of his stuff in our garage).
His wife and kids are settling into a large flat
in London, from which he travels to Oxford,
Cambridge, etc., researching his "big book"
on the evidence for alternate universes,
all this financed by a MacArthur Grant.
Pam's maturity has realized a long-time dream:
She has a big, beautiful house, plus two wooded acres
all to herself. Hell, her studio is as big as
our whole house. She lives off the booming sales
of her paintings and is having a ball decorating:
She just finished painting the living room walls
glossy black and the ceiling flaming orange.
It's a relief, really, having them all on their own,
leaving us to rattle around in our suddenly spacious
little house; but it's awfully quiet, maybe too quiet,
especially during these holidays. Fortunately
we still have our cat and our old selves
to take care of until they, too, are ready
to move out.
copyright c. 2006 by Dean Blehert. All Rights Reserved