13. STRANGERS, part 2
The ache of midlife
Thanks for reading The Crone Years. All my work is free, though I need and appreciate your support, whether it’s through a paid subscription, a heart, or referring this publication to a friend. I am grateful to have you here. With gratitude and love, SAJ
They are old hat now. The couple from the coffee shop where I write. My couple. For a minute, it seemed they’d disappeared, and I thought that maybe they’d been found out and fired due to some work rule, but no, they are here, no longer giddy or sultry with one another, just comfortable. I wish I could say, I know, but that would be creepy. Which makes me wonder if I am creepy, observing the world this way, finding scenes to disrupt the flood of feelings.
Five weeks in hospice, and the clock is winding down. Faster now, so I’m back to thinking about endings. Like the final scene in The Friend, a film adaptation of the book by Sigrid Nunez, that I watched on a flight back after seeing her. Spoiler alert: they avoid that glorious cathartic moment at the end of the novel. Couldn’t do it. Had to finish on a high note, which wasn’t high at all because they didn’t go there. Chicken shits.
It ends, people. Life ends.
After I order and pay for my matcha, the barista (there’s a third working today) tells me he’s leaving and that this will be his last week. The news guts me. Baristas have been dropping like flies, and he’s a great one, always asking me about my weekend and telling me about his, always making my drink perfect. Honestly, I’m not sure I have the stamina to engage with someone new, wait for them to memorize my name and the specifics of my order, be polite with them and force small talk for weeks until, at last, we feel comfortable enough to share tidbits about our lives. I tell the barista that I’m heartbroken to see him go and make a mental note to leave a big tip on his last day.
I unpack my bag, and two men come in. They both have thick curly hair and beards and wear their polo shirts untucked. The shorter one’s phone case is neon orange, which I think his kid must have picked out, because no adult likes a color that bright, but then I see that his friend’s wristband is also bright orange. Perhaps they are a couple. Or brothers, and the loud accessories are gifts from Mom last Christmas. They choose a table on the patio, where the walls are covered with fake green leaves, and as soon as they sit down, they launch into conversation. Their intimacy warms me, the way they lean over the bistro table and talk fast with animated hands that swipe at each other. Better than stiff arms. Nothing worse than someone who won’t give an inch.
That so many baristas have left and are leaving only heightens my growing sense of feeling trapped. It’s a sensation I know well, because it’s come for me throughout my life, usually resulting in my blowing something up to start over. Lately, the urge keeps me up at night as I contemplate if I still have the chops to make a bold move and try something new. If I can start again at this ripe age.
Paul Simon croons over the speaker: Slip slidin’ away/ Slip slidin’ a-way-yay/You know the nearer your destination/the more you’re slip slidin’ away. My god, everything is on the nose today.
She tells him that she’ll tackle some of the end-of-day tasks to make his close easier. Seconds later, I hear the door to the back open, and she appears with a broom and a dustpan with a long handle. Her blouse is short-sleeved and frilled at the shoulder, which gives her jeans a dressy look. So pretty, I think, and such an awkward sweeper, trying to coordinate the right and left actions of the chore. But then he appears to help and takes the clunky dustpan from her and holds it steady while she sweeps in the crumbs. That’s love, my friends. Right there.
The writer beside me packs up and leaves, and when I look up, I see that everyone is gone. There were eight people hunkered down when I arrived, and now the place is empty. And cold. I blow into my hands and down the last of my drink that the baristas all know to make extra hot.
While my fingers thaw, I check my phone. There’s a follow-up email for a meeting I attended the day before. I don’t like big gatherings, but my recurring thoughts about imploding my life have led me to sign up for a women’s support group that focuses on midlife issues. The subject of the month is sandwich care, which I learn means the time when you find yourself supporting both your kids and parents. Many share about parents with dementia or disease and the exhaustive attention they require. I secretly long for this. Wish that I’d been closer to my father in his later years. Wish that my mother had grown old enough to need me. When the host opens the floor for comments, I want to suggest that everyone find moments to write down the stories and ask the questions they’ve always wanted to ask, because the end never comes the way you think it will, but I don’t say anything because I’m new to the group and feeling shy.
A song ends, and Bruce Springsteen’s Secret Garden fills the room, and my face quivers with tears. Who chooses these damn playlists? I sit on my hands, hoping I can loosen their stiffness enough to work, hoping I can stop myself from breaking down. Not that it matters. It’s just me at the coffee shop.
ICYMI:
A Friend once told me that my writing made her think she could write. This was the ultimate compliment. A storyteller inspiring the telling of stories. You inspire me.
I was at the nursery early this morning, and it’s just not the same. Decades of buying plants and growing my garden but nothing about this nursery is the same. Things are changing so quickly and it’s partly to do with my age but not mostly.
Thank you for providing this beautiful sub stack Sylvia.
So much in this. Unsure where or what to unpack. My G-d, you are so very honest and raw.