Solitude

I entered this world alone, as many do. No twins or triplets to share the agony and the ecstasy. I entered too soon and began my life on earth in an "iron lung," as they called it in those days. My mother was a single mom, and she had no interest in re-marrying or having more kids. So, no little brother or sister for me.

I was too young for solitude, so I took matters into my own hands at the age of three. I was in my aunt's farmhouse attic where I was inspired to create Patsy, Barbara and Bobby, my imaginary siblings, after seeing antique rocking chairs and sad dusty teddy bears there. They later became real dolls who lived in my grandmother's large cedar closet. When I would visit them on weekends or in summer, I would play teacher. I took this activity very seriously, making up spelling or math tests and then passing or failing my students as needed.

When I was five, my grandparents bought me a ukelele and then later a guitar. They had a stand-up shower in their basement in which I stood and played and sang. Country and western: Hank Williams, Skeeter Davis, Tennessee Ernie Ford and Ernest Tubb. I was a natural-born singer, and the acoustics were very motivating.

I imagined crowds of adoring fans, clapping and yelling for more.

I eventually brought all my dolls home. I created companies like Sherlock Homes, spending hours planning and building bungalows out of plastic bricks.

All my dolls were sales agents, but the company did not last long.
Patsy was the only go-getter. The others preferred studying to ace their math tests.

As an adult, my moments of solitude were few and far between. Years filled with marriage, being a psychotherapist, singer and musician. Roaming around the county park with my French Briard sheepdogs, Max and Molly… rides in the country side enjoying farmland and old American-style Victorian houses…the infrequent dinner for one at a seafood or Italian restaurant (the waitress never failed to ask, "Are you waiting for someone?") … biking on a small island off North Carolina. Those moments had to suffice for "feeding my soul."

I am old now, a widow who lives alone. Solitude is now a way of life and growing on me. I spend some of my time writing poems about solitude. I also watch two squirrels fly (although they are not flying squirrels) from one precarious branch to another. The doe and her three offspring, who are now almost as big as their mother, chomp on my flowers and bushes. As summer ends, I am too tired to discourage them with "Liquid Fence." Evenings are filled with vintage British detective shows on YouTube, especially Sherlock Holmes, or reading books about solitary folks living on the coast of Maine.

I am sick and will soon be dead. I do not believe in heaven or hell. Certainly, no solitude in those places.

I am dead now and again in an iron lung of sorts, except there is no air.
No air and all alone forever.