safety shield

Today is Sunday. On Sundays I can't help but think of my old friend, catfish fry cook, and sanity barometer Obi-Wan. He was a major character from my last assignment in Texas.

We spent the better part of seven years in Obi-Wan's house every Sunday morning.

I get real emotional thinking about him. If I was an actor and had to perform a scene where I needed to cry, all I'd have to do was think about him and the seven years we spent.

Tears. On like a faucet.

And what's stupid...

He's not dead or anything. He'll be 94 at the end of this month.

And most any moment...

I could reach into my pocket, grab my cell, punch a button, and (assuming he'd answer, which he doesn't sometimes) talk to him on his cell.

But I usually don't.

It's too painful...talking to him

Somehow he always ends up talking about old times. Memories. Coming across the street and hanging out. Everything.

So to keep up with him, I usually email a trusted confidant who took over my part as volunteer care giver for Obi-Wan. Or sometimes I email some former neighbors who visit him at the care home once a week.

I'm told he has finally gotten use to the place. Not the food though. He's critical of all food made by someone other than him.

I'm afraid that one day I'm going to regret not calling him often.

I don't know how to carry on.

Damn.

I miss him.