The Telling

I think I have nearly run out of places Tom and I ate regularly at where I will be confronted with questions about him. Last week the regular guy was back at the McDonald's drive-thru and was almost in tears when I drove up. I assume a co-worker of mine told them, since he said he heard and offered his condolences and asked if I was okay. Tuesday I went into Subway for a salad. The girl behind the counter asks, "where is your better half?" I'm not alone in line and don't want to broadcast it, so I lean in and tell her while I fight back tears and then stare at the sliced tomatoes. I hold it together until I get to the car then completely lose it and try to reason out why telling new people bothers me so much. I don't really know anything about her or her life. I don't have a tangible connection with her. I can talk about him just fine with people who I've already told. Once it's out there, I'm okay. I still haven't quite figured this out.

Wednesday I'd asked a co-worker to lunch and Tortilla Flats in Roanoke was suggested. I started to balk thinking, oh God, it's going to happen again, as we had gotten to know the owner, Brenda, quite well. Tom had even snuck her burritos to me while I was in the hospital, so she had been well aware of how sick I'd been. Over the years, though, she had been at the restaurant less and less as she let the employees take over the day-to-day. I figured I was okay. We ordered food, sat in the open-air patio and enjoyed a nice conversation. Upon leaving we went back inside for more tea, but the tea was missing. Brenda turns around holding the tea container and exclaims, "Rebecca, where have you been? How are you?" She gets bonus points for recognizing me. So many people that didn't see me very often have actually not realized who I was when they saw me as my body went from 95 pounds to 88 pounds to 130 pounds and now back down to 105 due the effects of disease, throwing high dose steroids at it, stabilization on the correct treatment and then recent additional weight loss from stress of the death have had complete control over my body. I say, "Oh, around," and "My health is much much better." Here it comes. "How's Tom?" My poor friend is standing a few paces back knowing about the 2 previous instances and is probably afraid he's about to witness me dissolve into a quivering puddle. Brenda grabs my hand as I tell her and hugs me several times. She had actually been afraid that I had passed, since she hadn't seen us in a while. We both realized the irony of the entire situation. It should have been me.

I didn't dissolve, though. It was easier than it had been. Though I did walk past the driver's side of my car when I went to leave, so I may have been a little flustered. I promised her I'd come for lunch more often. My friend says that he can't imagine what I must be going through. There really isn't any way to explain it and I think it's different for everyone. I really have no desire to dwell in the past and I think that has gone a long way toward allowing me to move forward. I'm still painting. I decided to go ahead and enter a few of the shows whose deadlines are fast approaching. I was initially going to just forgo the rest of the year as far as juried shows went, but it's best to keep my work out there. You never know when it's going to lead to a new opportunity. So one foot in front of the other. Even with the occasional stumble, it's still moving forward.

The painting is "The Old Power Plant"

Each October during Harvest Moon Festival, they fire up the machines in the Old Power Plant near the Historic Square in Granbury. It's not something to be missed. Admist the roaring machines, this quiet corner by the window was calling out to me.