Only Turquoise

I am now in St. Louis for the indefinite future. I will not change my blog to "St. Louis Blues" out of deference to the old jazz tune, and the hockey team, not that I give a puck for hockey. Besides, the blues are fundamentally a Black man's genre, and I'm as pale as ice. I'm afflicted more with the Santa Fe variety of blues: the Santa Fe Turquoise. I'm sure even my uncle's discerning and plainspoken African American caregivers will allow me the turquoise, if not the blues.

Left a girl in Santa Fe,
Where the sunsets make you cry;
Left that girl in Santa Fe,
She's more beautiful than that sky
So I've got the turquoise every day,
I'll have the turquoise 'til I die.

She wants to live far off the grid,
She don't like this world so much,
So she don't leave no fingerprints,
Or footprints where she walks;
But her footprints are there all over my soul,
Her fingerprints all on my heart.

Only turquoise, only turquoise,
Only turquoise from now on,
Only turquoise, all my sunsets gone,
There's a chalk line all around my soul,
But my body's pressing on.

I wagered everything on her,
It is a bet that I have lost,
Certain fate had brought her 'round,
I didn't count the cost;
Now turquoise, turquoise,
Turquoise is all I got.

Left a girl in Santa Fe,
Where sunsets will make you weep;
Left her there in Santa Fe,
Her wounds so sad and deep;
Yeah, she's got the turquoise all day long,
Turquoise when she's asleep.

Only turquoise, only turquoise,
Only turquoise from now on,
Only turquoise, all our sunsets gone,
There's a chalk line all around my soul-
But my body's pressing on.

So here I am in St. Louis with Mr. Top, shopping, cooking, and helping out as I can. I'll be here either until he's gone or it's clear I'm either not wanted or not needed. Then, some day, if I live long enough, I will be Mr. Top. In the meantime I hope I get a few things right, and write a few things well.

After an appointment with the eye doctor this morning, we went to Red Lobster for his beloved seafood stuffed mushrooms. After we turned into our parking spot a busload of meal seekers from an assisted living home pulled up. They were all in better shape than my uncle. The restaurant staff assumed we were all together, so they seated them all right by us as they came in. I found myself falling into a serious existential funk, looking at these lonely faces of the future. A old pal and I have often spoken of taking a final walk in the woods together when we sense we're reaching the end. The end of what? Usefulness? Joy? Money? Health? It won't happen. The end creeps up very slowly, and then all at once, as Hemingway characterized going broke. With a very few exceptions, I have never met an elderly person, no matter how physically or mentally limited, who wanted to die . . . today. I must assume I shall feel the same way.