I stayed awake and went to 8:30 Mass. I was glad I went. I came home, ate breakfast, slept, awoke.

I did laundry, wrote an erotic story, to get some sexual feeling back. J came home. We then went to a 5:00 Mass together, just so I could be with her. We had dinner. Now I sit, waiting for trains to pass, much like how I started the day.

And now, I think of Armistice Day tomorrow, how we morphed it in the States to Veterans Day, then further morphed it into another marketing opportunity. A sale in a person’s name is the highest homage we can think of, here in America.

“We forget how to cry. We save photos instead.”- Jacques Brel.

That line from a Jacques Brel song haunts me even more, now that we have storage available for more photographs than we could ever hope to take or save.

I have wedding pictures from failed marriages, marriages I have shed not one tear over. One of those former spouses is dead, the other blows through relationships as if they were Kleenex©. I am the survivor.

So I will take my Sunday, with the wife who loves me in the only, if not the best, way she can. And trust that our best days will be filled with passion. And that changing the sheets will be necessary a lot more often.