Wilma

12/30/2013

You know they say that everybody has a story in them that is waiting to be written.  Unfortunately for me, that story is painful. I have stopped and started many times to write about my suicide attempts.  It's a story that nobody would ever want to read, much less buy. But I can't let it go.  So I continue to peck away at the keys trying to put into words some of the feelings I had this year that brought me to the edge of life twice.  Even if the story remains just bits of data on my computer, it's cathartic to try and express what I was thinking (or not), on those two occasions, and I know it's something that I need to commit to paper, so that on a really bad day, I can reflect on my journey and see how far I've come.

I have an actual story that has been rattling around in my head for some time, and it's fun. The heroine is a crusty, sharp-tongued, takes no prisoners, retired librarian named Wilma. There are parts of Wilma that remind me of somebody - hmmm - me? Yup.

So the story goes:

Sitting in the attorney’s office, I try hard to concentrate on what he’s saying; but everything sounds like legal mumbo-jumbo which will ultimately cost me a pretty penny I’m sure. Lawyers are pretty much like weathermen, they get paid even if they screw something up, and they never have to apologize.  I want their jobs!

 So why am I sitting across the desk from a lawyer who really looks bored and can’t stop himself from constantly checking the clock to make sure that I’m billed for every minute of his time?  Well long story short, I’m been married for 55 years and like most marriages some years were better than others.  But my marriage isn’t what’s brought me into the inner sanctum of this sanctimonious stuffed shirt.  My husband’s untimely (come to think of it is there ever a good time?) passing away has forced me to seek the services of an attorney.  My opinion, and mind you it’s only mine, but lawyers in general remind me of used car salesmen. They smile often and likely as not you’re sold a bill of goods.

So while I’ve been sitting in the chair, my mind has wandered off, which is okay and even expected, when you reach a certain age.  I break free from my revere when I hear, rather than see, the attorney slap an envelope onto the desk.  I stare at my name, which is written in my husband’s handwriting, and know that once I read this letter, I won't be receiving any other missives from my late husband.  Oh I suppose he could become an angel or something and drop by for a visit which would certainly scare the crap out of me.

Gotta dash.  I'm trying to make myself a new design for my blog.  New Year, new beginnings. Stuff like that.

P