2016 November 25

Patty was my “older woman” – you know, the one that the bad angels – “they” – are always telling a young man he should have for a while, to learn something. She taught me a few things about women, and sex. The sideways backwards X-position, for example.

I was twenty three, she was thirty… or was it thirty four? Or maybe only thirty. I don’t remember.

She had four children. Three girls, and the youngest, a boy. Let’s see, there was Ginger, Pam, and… I can’t remember. Tanya? Tasha? Something. The boy was called V.J. – I remember – which was for Vincent Joseph.

I don’t remember Patty’s last name.

She was psychic. Showed me so, once.

Well, either that, or a superb faker. I will explain later.

My coffee is starting to perk and it is morning, now, forty-two years later.

Okay. I turned it down. Now I have to wait five or six minutes while it percolates.

Forty-two years ago, the first drip coffee makers had already been invented, I believe.  I remember.

I believe I remember.

I definitely remember Patty. Like all of the women – seven or eight, if I can trust a flash memory off the top of my head and heart – like all of them, I owe her a debt of emotional power and love. Thankfulness that she, and they, cared for me, each in their time. Some of them still do. Others have gone on and I don’t know where they are now. One, my last one, after sixteen years of going out together (we only lived together for a year), died.

I have been fortunate, mostly. I cannot think of any particular badness in any of them. That is excellent fortune. To have been with good women. Loving women.

Oh… one other thing. To the best of my memory, I did keep in touch with all of them long enough to realize that none of them – except for the mother of our son – had a child from my loins.

Well, I have my hot cup now. A mug with a sheep on it.

L’AGNEAU it says.



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