Bald-headed
Ch. 31

Of our four children, three are still alive, and although it is difficult to visit, they come often, and for that I thank you. But even when they are not here, they come alive in my mind every day, respectively, and they remind me of the smiles and tears that come with raising a family.

A dozen pictures lined up on my bedroom wall. They are my legacy, my contribution to the world. I'm very proud. Sometimes I wonder what my husband thinks of the pictures when he dreams, or whether he no longer thinks of them at all, or whether he doesn't even dream. There are many things about him that I don't understand anymore.

I wonder what my father thinks of my life and what he would do if he were me. I haven't seen him for fifty years and he's now just a shadow in my mind. I couldn't imagine it clearly anymore, his face dark as if a light was shining from behind him.

I'm not sure if this is due to a failing memory or just due to the passage of time. I only have one photo of him, and this too has faded. In ten more years it will be gone and so will I, and his memory will be erased like a message in the sand.

If it wasn't for the books I wrote every day, I swear I only live half my age. My old life seems to have disappeared. And even now I read those passages and wonder who I was when I wrote them, for I cannot remember the events of my life. Sometimes I sit and wonder where it all went.

"My name," I said, "is Graceful." I've always been a fan of Grace C. Sasmi, an exotic singer who later expanded his career in the country of people but still can not be separated from his birth roots, Indonesia.

"Fine," he whispered to himself, "Fine." He thought for a moment, his forehead wrinkled, his eyes serious.

"Yes" I said, "i'm here for you." And always will be, I thought to myself.

He blushed with my answer. His eyes became wet and red, and tears began to fall. My heart aches for him, and I hope for the thousandth time there is something I can do.

He said, "I'm sorry. I don't understand anything that's happening to me right now. Even thou. When I listen to you talk, I feel like I should know you, but I don't know. I don't even know my name."

She wiped her tears and said, "Help me, Grace, help me remember who I am. Or at least who I am. I feel so lost."

I answered from my heart, but I lied to him about his name. Like I have about myself. There's a reason for this.

"You are Rio, a lover of life, a force for those who share in your friendship. You are a dream, the creator of happiness, a poet who has touched thousands of souls. You have lived a full life and do not want anything because your needs are spiritual and you just need to look inside you. You are kind and loyal, and you can see beauty where others do not see it. You're an amazing teacher of lessons, a dreamer of better things."

I paused for a moment and adjusted my breath.

Then, "Rio, there's no reason to feel lost, because,

Nothing is truly lost, or can be lost, or can be lost,

No birth, identity, shape – no object of the world, no,

Or life, or force, or any visible object; . . . Body, sluggish, old, cold – embers left over from the previous fire,

He thought about what I said for a moment. In silence, I looked up at the window and realized that the rain had stopped now. The sunlight began to enter his room. She asked.

"Did you write that?"

"No, that's a phrase Walt Whitman wrote."

"Who?".

"He's one of those words-lovers, mind-shaper."

He did not respond directly. Instead he looked at me for a long time, until his breathing ran in the same rhythm. Pull, remove, pull, remove, pull, eject. Then breathe in. I wonder if he knows I think he's handsome.

"Will you stay with me for a while?" he finally asked.

I smiled and nodded. He smiled back. I grabbed her hand, took it gently, and pulled it to my waist. I stared at the hardened knot that broke the shape of her fingers and stroked her gently. His hand is still a firm hand even though ours has been gnawed at by a similar disease.

"Come on," I said as I stood with great difficulty, "let's go for a walk. Fresh air and warm light await. Today is beautiful." I looked at him as I said these last few words.

She blushed. It makes me feel young again.

I'm famous, of course. One of the best southern painters of the twenty-first century, some say, and he was certainly proud of me.

But for him, he was always humble, and said that he even needed to struggle to write the simplest poem, "My wife can create beauty as easily as God created the earth. The paintings are in museums all over the world, but I only keep two for myself. The first one he gave me and the last one. The paintings are now hanging in my room, and late at night I sometimes sit to stare at them, sometimes crying when I look at the pictures. I don't know why, "it's always what he tells people who know him. Such is.

And the years passed. We live our lives, work, paint, raise children, love each other. I saw photos of celebrations, family trips, graduations, and weddings. I saw a grandson and a happy face. I looked at our photos, our hair was getting whiter, the lines on our faces were getting deeper. A lifetime that seemed so typical, yet unusual.

We can't predict the future, but then who can? I am not living now as I expected. And what do I expect? Retirement period. Visiting grandchildren, maybe more traveling. I always loved to travel. I thought maybe I'd start a hobby, which he didn't know about, but maybe another art-making, a ship. In bottle. Small, detailed, tapj cannot be considered with the condition of my hand as it is now. But I'm not heartbroken.

Our lives cannot be measured by our last years, I am sure of this, and I guess I should know what will happen in our lives.

Looking back, I guess it seemed obvious, but at first I thought the confusion was understandable and not unique.