And then there are the sad ones among us

It is difficult to describe the moment accurately. It was like being doused with cold hard rain while scurrying home under a swollen thunderstorm, or the moment you realize while reading the last chapter of a novel that the story may not have a happy ending.

I was sitting in a favorite chair in a favorite bistro on San Sebastian Plaza listening to an acquaintance speak of her latest goings on. My habit is to be as attentive as possible, while also saving space for a little daydreaming and eavesdropping on snippets of conversation from those around me. Because I was distracted, I was taken by surprise as her words soaked in. It seemed almost incomprehensible as she said them: the title of a book she carried since childhood, dotted with pinpricks of rain.

“I am all alone,” she said.

The levee broke. The fermented memories vented at last, in an outpouring of grief, fear, and isolation

“I remember the first thing that struck me when I arrived in Cuenca was the thrilling exuberance that zinged like a current in the air. I tried to breathe it all in, altitude and attitude, but I could not. I was overwhelmed by the fragrance and the opportunity for friendships, creative expression, and everyday fun. I believed at that very moment that I was, at last, at home. And, after all these many years, I still feel fortunate to live here.

“But, my heart has grown weary.

“I am often disheartened. I want to call on a friend to visit, to enjoy coffee and conversation on the terrace with me. But, most have returned to their homeland, or moved on to the next’ best kept secret,’ as determined by a bunch of real estate agents. And,  suppose, whole handfuls of friends must have gone to Heaven, as well. But I just don’t cross paths with folks I know like I used to, and I miss them. I miss them all.

“My early years in Cuenca were filled with friendships. It seemed that we all were smoothing old scars of loss and shedding the weight of a left behind nation. We were fresh and wished that the whole world bloomed like Cuenca. Friendships came easy and were as varied as the flower boxes in the windows overlooking Estevez de Toral. We indulged in childish behavior once again and reveled in every moment. I was drunk on the heady mixture of youthful energy and comradery embraced by stately architecture and lessons learned over a lifetime. We were energized with optimism, enjoying a new measure of affordable comfort, and most importantly, time to share each other’s fascinating stories about children who are grown, places far away, and what it means to have a family.

“It seemed our joy would last forever. But, of course, change always comes, and always comes too quickly. And all too quickly, it arrived for me.”

Her eyes were downcast but clear. She paused for a minute as if she was searching for lyrics of a long ago love song, then continued:

“He told me he moved to Cuenca after his wife died because staying put, or spending the rest of his days playing golf would be a tragedy. Well, I guess he liked tragedies because he said over breakfast one morning that he missed golfing and was thinking about moving back to Texas.

“He left before saying good-bye and did not come back.

“I asked him to write, but the link was broken.

“A couple I once relied on to join me for concerts, packed off to Vilcabamba. Another couple returned to Toronto to help a hospitalized grandchild. Two more couples left due to their own medical issues while someone else packed off for India for a different kind of healing.

“My closest neighbor passed away this past winter. I have her cat and a few of her houseplants. She loved them both.

“The welcome parties I once hosted are history; the Bon Voyage fetes are no longer required because so few are left to attend.

“I don’t go out visiting much anymore; I no longer go out much at all. Instead, I wrap myself in memories: a favorite shawl alpaca shawl, the lingering smoke of an ancient fire, and tales from my faintly beating heart. My daily stroll is now through a field of dreams, and although they stoke warm memories, sometimes when it rains, or the clouds dip deep, I chill.”

I strained to conceal my sadness. I wanted her to believe that every day is a good day, and that looking for love is a noble pursuit. I asked her, “What can I do for you? Is there some place you want to see? I know, if you had just one wish to last you until forever, what would it be?”  She looked right at me.

“I wish not to be forgotten.“