Losing your life’s companion is a hell of a thing. Particularly for ‘people of a certain age,’ as the euphemism goes. Some widows and widowers go out and find someone new and start another relationship, while others are way too disinclined to go down that road again. How tiresome it could be, getting to know someone else all over again and them getting to know you. Seeing if you fit together. Working that damn jigsaw puzzle again. Most old folks don’t have the time or the patience for jigsaw puzzles.
If you can’t hack it alone, it seems to me the best bet would be to try and re-ignite with an old flame. A lover from the seventies who is in a similar situation as yourself. Someone who knows you already. So you can skip the introductory bull. I doubt if it would work for me though. Some of my former flames would sooner burn my ass than dance with it. I came with too much emotional and psychological baggage, a manic-depressive, one day I would be a novelty item in a Cracker Jack box, and the next, a Sturm und Drang maniac.
Relationships in the seventies were like rugby scrimmages. We were all players and many players got muddied and some got bloodied. I got lucky. One tough lady emerged from combat and for good or ill walked off the field with Wild Bill. And stayed with me for thirty-four years. For that I am forever thankful. And without her, I am forever saddened.
Which is why she cannot be replaced. I have my cat and my booze and my books and my movies and a cozy hovel to live in, and when I want to step out and find some action, me and my 1860 genuine replica Henry repeating rifle mosey on down to the gun range, just a mile from the house and squeeze off a few. Ah, the pop-pop-pop culture of America.
If I’m going to get burned it’ll be from a misfire, not from an old flame.