The pissiness of the last post continued for a few days, with side trips into frustration and depression.
I miss Bob, of course. Usually I can handle it. But a couple of days ago I was having my afternoon coffee in the treetops, reading, then found myself crying and trying to bargain with the universe. What would I have to trade to have an hour with him? My home, my savings, arm, leg, right kidney, left eye? Name it, it's yours - just let me share a cup of coffee with him.
A dream helped me work it out. It was an odd dream, fairly short. All I remember was putting a shopping bag of something in the back of the car. Pretty sure it was books. The trailer (the one Bob used to take his jeep to parades, and otherwise we stored the kayaks on them) was hooked to the back of the car. A woman got in the car and drove off. I was running after her, screaming, telling her to stop, to come back. Somehow Bob was there. I turned on him, yelling "why didn't you stop her? You heard me yelling - you could have stopped her." Each time he started to justify it, I would cut him off with more screaming "I don't care!! Bring it back!!"
Woke up crying and shaking. It took me until the afternoon to realize the obvious: the woman driving off in the car was me. I've been taking loads of Bob's books to Rik (who is also interested in military history) as well as to friends of the library. And Rik is soon getting that trailer. I mean - it's just sitting out there, with the tires going bad and the deck rotting, but it's got good bones and Rik needs one and will be happy to fix it up. And it's not like I'm going to be taking the jeep to a parade. It needs to go. But it hurts.
And another era has ended. In the last post I also wrote about needing to have my big release cage torn down. Bob and I built that, what? 20 years ago. Two big cages, back to back, the front one with a scratch yard. Our crippled white peacock, Lord Byron, spent most of his life in there. He was joined by the first peacock we ever hatched, Bruiser (named for the way she kicked her way out of the shell) when she got old and a bit senile and was forgetting to get into a tree to roost at night. The back cage has seen dozens of opossums, plus baby armadillos and a couple of litters of foxes, and anything else that needed a private area for awhile.
But Hurricane Michael really tore it up. Trying to repair it was on the things-to-do-list. But we got the yard cleaned up, and other damage repaired, and then Bob was diagnosed . . . So it's been sitting there, quietly rotting. I have been over the back cage as thoroughly as I could, inspecting every inch - but the two times I've put opossums out there, they've escaped the first night (fortunately they were about ready to be released). I've still kept it, because for some reason the peacocks liked to hang out in the front covered area. But I don't have any peacocks anymore. Monday I call Kenny the demo guy - and he and his crew came today and tore it down. It will all be dragged off by the weekend. While I admit that it was quite an eyesore - it will still seem empty without it. And it's not like I'm fostering anymore - I seem to have lost that mojo. I've done a few opossums but that's about it.
So, yeah. Depressed. But that's not the same as depression. This is just sadness - and I've got stuff to be sad about, so it's OK. I even spent some time working on the griffin puppet. I finally was able to get a vision in my head so it's coming along now. I'll get started on the body this week.
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