There's a real touch of autumn in the air today. It's cloudy, windy and chilly. That also means there aren't many days left to play golf, so. . .out I went at 7:30 this morning, hoping to beat the rain forecast for later in the day. Not only did I beat the rain, I also beat everyone else to the golf course. My friend, Ed, wimped out on me because of the weather, but I enjoyed the time alone. It was another of those time when I strongly felt Gwen's presence; I could hear her cheering good shots, teasing me about missed putts, just being there with me. It's that bittersweet thing again because I long to have her actually sitting next to me. There goes that sinking feeling in my stomach.
As I was driving home, the rain began. Lately I've been thinking about chicken noodle soup, and what better day than today to make that favorite of Gwen's and mine. There's a Meijer's Thrifty Acres store on the way home where I got some carrots, celery, parsley, and, of course, a chicken. The soup is on the stove right now, and the smell is as delicious as the soup will be later. There are always those associations--Gwen would compliment me on my chicken noodle soup and tell me that her dad liked it because I put big chunks of chicken in it.
One thing leads to another, and my eyes misted over as I thought about how I'll miss our dog, Max, when I'm removing the meat from the carcass. The sight of me making chicken noodle soup was a big deal to him. He would lie on the floor at my feet, pretending to be bored and disinterested in what I was doing. He would sure come to life when I tossed him some skin or other scraps. Gwen's voice was in the background, warning me not to give him any bones that might get caught in his throat. Oh, the sweet memories. He was a good dog, and I miss him. (Don't get excited, kids, it's not going to happen.)
I have to remember to talk with my brothers and sisters more often. Last night I talked with Andy and Cindy; it was good to get caught up on what's going on with them. Anne's job had taken her to Boston, and they had dinner together last night.
Call it what you will; as I follow my thoughts and feelings they always lead back to you, Dear. I've been working on a poem about autumn without you; it will be ready tomorrow. (I just got choked up when I realized that you not only help me write the poems, you also enjoy reading them.) That's the thing about a poem; good, bad or indifferent, it's something from the heart that is unique and didn't exist before.
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