The final rodeo show was at 7 p.m. Saturday, and I got home about 9:15 or so. After sitting inside for a little while, I went upstairs to shower away all the dust and dirt and the sunscreen from that afternoon. The night was a nice summer night. Plenty warm but not hot or humid. I took myself and my towel out to the back porch, deactivated the motion-sensor back light and cooled off/dried off there. I took a favorite brand of chips along (Wheat Thins veggie chips), and that lured my wife out there with me.
By now the final light of day was nearly gone, and it was dark. Dark enough so that the towel came off, as we sat together on the back steps. The rodeo street dance was taking place a few blocks away, and we listened to the music. That thunderstorm that blew up just as the rodeo was ending--it left us high and dry, of course--was retreating off to the southeast, and we watched the lightning flash as the clouds moved way.
She had taken a plastic cup along for some of the Wheat Thins, and we nibbled from that. But it was dark. So once when I reached for a Wheat Thin, I banged the cup out of her hand, and the contents spilled on the steps. The light had to be switched on for a few minutes as we recovered what we could. Then it was off, and we resumed nibbling and talking.
A breeze came up. It felt nice on my clean back. I pulled her shirt up so her back could also enjoy the feeling. A minute later, I thought her front would also like to feel cool. And a few minutes after that, I decided she'd like to be air-conditioned all over, so there went her shorts. In short, she was as naked as I was. (I think she was still wearing socks, so she wasn't, technically, naked.)
But it was dark, so who cares? We spent some time looking at the stars overhead--you can see many of them from our back porch in summer. Looked at the leaves on the trees, moving softly. Listened to the music. Watched the lightning. Talked about this and that. Life and death. What other trips we want to make this summer. Getting her a new job. Things I want to do before the fall sports kick in. After about an hour and a half--by then it was nearly midnight--we went upstairs to bed.
***
I'll pause that train of thought to climb aboard another. My wife had been working at a motel just out of town for the last 10 or so years. She worked part-time in the laundry. We get to know the owner, Sharon, and she became a good friend. She was smart enough to see that I'm not like everybody else, and she wasn't, either. She laughed at my jokes. Complimented me on what I wrote in the paper.
Sometimes when she'd call to tell my wife whether she would be working, I would "put her on." One of my favorite methods of putting people on is by "misunderstanding" something they tell me. It turns an ordinary word into a very different one, switching an ordinary remark into something slightly naughty. I got her giggling many times by doing that.
Sharon was a few years older than me, but (let's be honest here) I had "certain feelings" about her. I mean ... I certainly wouldn't have minded. If you know what I mean. I never told her this, of course. She knew I liked her, but that's all.
Anyway. Around last December, she got ill and went to the doctors, who discovered cancer--she was a smoker--and that it had spread. The motel closed around the end of the year. My wife started making a prayer shawl for her--after all, she had plenty of spare time now. My mom started knitting one, too, but she's not good with her fingers any more, so progress has been slow.
Sharon took chemo and she took radiation. My wife's prayer shawl was done, and I was after her to bring it to her. She said not yet. Sharon isn't feeling well enough yet.
In late spring, the time was right. We went to the motel and saw her and her husband, Bob, and talked. She looked frail and thin but happy to see us. I got a warm hug from a weak woman. She had to go after a few minutes, but she told us to harvest the rhubarb along the side of her house. Conveniently, my wife had brought her little knife along, so we picked rhubarb for a while.
On Tuesday, a week ago, we got the news that Sharon had died. She had been home until going to a nursing home for her final weeks. This Monday (yesterday), I left work early to go to her funeral. It was short--about 20 minutes--and small--about 20 people. And then she was gone. I was hurting, of course. I don't cry easily, and I didn't, but I felt the emotions. At the end, I walked to the front, kissed my fingers and put them on her urn. Goodbye, Sharon.
Not that I was sad. My prayers for her had been answered: Her suffering had ended. She is now free of pain and fear. I said what I could to Bob. But what can you say that makes any difference to someone who is hurting so much?
***
Back aboard that other train. Saturday night on the porch. The lightning flickering away and fading off. The cool breeze on our bare backs. The country music singer in the background. The stars overhead. We talked about Sharon. And put an arm around each other's waist.
I looked up at the stars. I wondered which one is Sharon.
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