I went upstairs to lie beside my wife, as she watched rerun after rerun of Little House On The Prairie. OK. Then she wanted me to prepare a quesadilla for her, with a corn tortilla rather than wheat. No big difference.
I had settled in, even as Little House was saturating the bedroom with its unique banality. Then I became restless again. My eyes ached, but I could bear Little House no longer. I went downstairs, took my metformin, watched a few episodes of a World War One documentary. The sharp brutality, tempered only by black and white film is the originating myth of our time, now playing itself out in Ukraine. Lemberg, Lvov, Lviv, only the names change. And the butchers.
My home, like the world, scrapes along. We have our pains, as our dreams of grandchildren flicker away, in my son’s alcoholic reveries and seizures.
The orgasms of half a century ago were meant to spark a legacy. We didn’t know that then.
Nothing Really Wrong
Nothing Really Right.
I have no words of wisdom, or assurance. Nothing I can add, could provide answers, or even hope. I just get it. You’re not alone in those fears and frustrations.
It’s not the sort of thing I thought about when sex was 90% participatory sport and 10% other. I never thought about where I’d be values-wise 50 years into the future. You and Adam are reflecting the right behaviour around marriage by being happy with each other. The kids notice this.
slave sindee said:
life does go on and sometimes our dreams are not realized but yet somehow with the help of God and our faith we get up and try our best to exist in His love.