It’s no secret I love Kurt Vonnegut, and feel as if we’re forever friends.
Sometimes we discuss things, especially writing dilemmas. But he’s pretty good with life’s problems too, like when my feelings get hurt by some random shun.
He too was very sensitive, helping me up off the mat, offering his spectral hankie.
I’ve been walking a lot since the onset of my singular social life, so I went to visit his longtime home in Turtle Bay.
Where I’d normally respectfully, stand across the street, this time I boldly sat on the steps almost as if he invited me to.
You see, that was where he more or else, breathed his last, the day he tripped over his beloved dog, Flour’s leash, hitting his head.
I thought about that as I sat there, deciding it was a good way to go when he left the planet on April 11th, 2007 at age 84, as if he simply laid down for an eternal nap.
It might have even been his idea, to go and not stick around. I’ve heard this theory so often that sometimes you’re given the choice, that I’ve begun believing it.
He was struggling in his later years, in an unhappy marriage, living isolated on the third floor of the house, its steps I now graced.
He also felt unappreciated as a writer, something that pains me since, so many of us are Kurt fans.
In any event, I sat and thought of him wondering what I’d do if someone came out in protest.
I was fully prepared to defend my stay, declaring homage to a man who deserved it, but never had to.
I then, mask in place, hands shoved in my jeans, walked home as if Kurt was strolling beside me.
And so it goes.
PS He was sexy, wasn’t he?
Oh don’t be modest Kurt, you were!!!