Far More

I have never found it difficult to be honest, with one exception, admitting the truth to myself.

I pretend until the cold wind of reality knocks me to my knees.

I accepted the need for a cane when I rationalized it was “His,” and not terribly different than the strong hand that invariably reached out for mine during the 57 years we shared.

I pretend I am doing “Really quite well,” when I visit my medical advisors, avoiding the topic of the inevitable consequences of age which I hide in the inner recesses of truth.

I savor my memories and yet perhaps that is also a method of rejecting living in the moment that is now the reality.

I choose to be reclusive sharing my inner thoughts only with those who read my words.

Is this a shield against the pain of loss which entered my life when my lover left? Or perhaps I fear I do not have the strength for another of life’s challenges.

I do not believe I consciously avoid pain, but perhaps the mask of indifference is my weapon.

Or perhaps it is the staff that I have been gifted to help me walk the last miles I have left to complete.

Because in a rare moment of being truthful, I acknowledge the cane my lover bequeathed me is necessary for far more than equilibrium.

And at the risk of not being totally honest , I will continue to pretend it is his hand still holding mine.