Summertime! and the Living is Easy

The loss of my father has had me considering things that I could heretofore ignore because, among the other things a parent is for a child, she or he is a barrier to mortality. As long as a parent is there, in the wings, assuming of course a reasonably good relationship, the sense of safety, of a tad of immortality persists, however illogical the feeling.

Experiencing the intimations of mortality (rather than the poet's immortality), I have been taking care of various personal business matters. Today involved one such matter, in addition to the dry cleaner, getting gas (ouch!), picking up necessaries at Target.

There was peculiar sense of unreality in my task, generated by talking about myself, after my death, in relationship to others still alive. It oddly wasn't morbid. There was a relief in the process, a release in a way from fear. Whether that will be permanent or not I cannot tell. I was well away from home for my task, and on my way back, I decided to stop at Claire's On the Beach in the Long Beach Museum of Art. I know I have mentioned this cafe eatery along the ocean in at least one or two entries. Like the Hollywood Bowl (and another performance tonight there) it is a favorite place.

I got my table overlooking the bike path and the water's shimmer and the length of sand. Above is Claire's, you would see where I sat if I had a pointer. The picture doesn't do justice. Usually I bring something to read when I am alone, but I noticed that my senses were heightened and I needed rather to listen and look and see and feel rather than to read. The waiters were moving at a relaxed pace. That was fine. I was in no rush. I closed my eyes. Breeze. The smell of sun, sand and water. Music, not usual in my prior trips here, coming from speakers, kind of a Euro Jazz at first, then a traditional but particularly tactile jazz. Voices of the diners. Breakfast was eggs, over medium, bacon, fruit and an English muffin, which I ate with deliberation to extend my stay in a space suspending fear, care,and mortality itself. A man in a peculiar, white large, Cat in the Hat head covering was repeatedly careening down the bike path hill, going down smoothly, and walking up to do it again. The modern art fountain's water tinkling complemened theocean whoosh. I heard the singer's languid, "Summertime. . . .and the living is easy. . ."   Deep cleansing breath. And I return to the world. Until tonight and the caress of the hills at the Bowl. Life is hard, but in between, glorious moments.