On Being Left Alone

“Maybe the most difficult, most important thing anyone could do for anyone else was to leave him alone; it was perhaps the only gratuitous act, the act of love.” - Joan Didion

I loved Lorena not because of what she did or didn’t do, but because of who she was. The fact is we didn’t do much of anything. We could sit across from each other for hours and not feel the need to fill the air with sound. Just an occasional smile and gently whispered, “I love you.”

She crocheted and knitted and I read and wrote. We enjoyed cooking together, dining out occasionally, weekend trips, walking the dogs, holding each other tight, and I anticipated her kiss on my neck as she snuggled up behind me each night as we fell to sleep.

I don’t like to use the word “comfortable” to describe a relationship, but I will because we were. Comfortable.

Before meeting my one true love, I spent 40 years traveling, chasing planes, working hard to keep rich people rich, and keeping my ex accustomed to the lifestyle she wanted. Lorena’s ex-husband was wealthy and she had the opportunity to travel, too. We didn’t hate travel. We just didn’t need it. We didn’t need to do anything. Except be. We needed to be with each other.

Now I am in the new home. Alone. Not that I must be alone. Many family and friends, hers and mine, have approached me since Lorena passed away. “Please come over.” Generous offers, indeed. Perhaps too generous. Perhaps better described as “charitable.” And I have never considered myself a charity case. Or maybe it feels more like a prurient intrusion by those who can’t really feel the pain but need to do so vicariously. Perhaps both.

And if we did get together, what would we talk about? Lorena? How wonderful she was. How beautiful she was, inside and out.? Yes, I know. I know better than anyone. Talking about her only reminds me of the pain of living without her.

Then there are the friends who have advised me to “sell the house. Come back into the city.” As if geography is the problem. It isn’t.

I’m not a loner. I am a one person person. And I can be with that one person anywhere, urban, rural, other, anytime, or all the time. And if I am not, I can be lonely in a room full of people.

Still others argue I ought to stop whining and instead be kneeling and giving thanks to the gods for all I have. But I don’t. And I won’t. A nice house, stuff of any variety, means nothing without love. Stuff is just a weak excuse to justify being alone. Rich or poor, there will be no gentle night’s sleep without our arms around each other. The place one is alone plays no role.

My destiny is destitute. There is no luck in the dark alone going nowhere. And alone is a choice.

My choice.

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