![]() I had to have a fresh one every morning for breakfast. Maybe it’s me, but years ago when I got introduced to mangos in Hawai’i, I thought they were manna from heaven. I’ve watched YouTube how-to videos, read how-to articles, and by the time I’m done trying to get the seeds out, I’ve lost interest.Īnd, yes, you can buy the seeds already extracted, but they don’t taste as fresh. Oh, you say, there’s a special way to extract the seeds. As far as I’m concerned they’re unpeelable and getting to the fruity, crunchy seeds is near impossible. I don’t hate them merely, I find them frustrating. I love the crunchy seeds and that little splash of flavor when you chew them. Never in my life did I think I’d write about fruit, but here we go. One thing I like about this 52-week writing challenge is the different topics I culled from various writing challenge lists (from Pinterest, by the way). I think about the promise of forever made by “the one” and wonder why on earth I believed in that fairy tale.Įxcuse me, while I go back to writing fiction that’s happy ever after–more or less. I miss the walks, the boat rides, the long drives in the country where we talked about any- and everything. I miss the Sunday mornings sharing coffee and the newspaper in bed. I’ve been on my own long enough I can’t imagine sharing time and space with anyone other than my friends and family. That, and my life is full as it is right now. We’d barely known each other.Įven almost two years later, I think about what might have been. ![]() I felt ridiculous, of course, for being angry, but I also thought it wasn’t my “right” to grieve. Then, I found out he’d died at home, alone, a couple of days after we’d chatted on the phone. He didn’t call to set it up as he indicated he would, and I’d built up a good head of resentment. Lunch dates only, and we decided on a “real” date–dinner and a movie. Giving UpĪ couple of years ago, I put my toe in the waters and had a couple of dates with a man in my area. I’ve often said he was the person I was put on earth to love, and I do. Rather, we both turned our backs and walked away: him because I wouldn’t enable any longer me because I couldn’t live the rest of my life the way I had started it, with an alcoholic. The last two he spent in an alcoholic daze, and I wish I could say we drifted away. I found “the one” at work in the early 1980s, and it was bliss for 20 of our 22 years together. Oh, and when we split, guess whose side my mother took? Final Love He was also my infamous stalker after we split, the one I had to hold a gun on to get him to leave me alone. He didn’t see handcuffing and having nonconsensual sex with me as rape. He was a policeman and a racist, and I wasn’t my authentic self with him. Never date someone your mother likes, especially if you think it will improve your relationship with her. However, I wouldn’t do drugs with him, and he moved on to someone who did. We talked about politics, the war, revolution, and almost anything else. There was also a Vietnam vet in several of my history classes. In college, there were dates, a few, but no one stood out as “the one.” There was a professor, but that went no further than flirting. Then came college and the death of first love. That was in high school, of course, and the person I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with was different from every other boy in the school. Right now, my only relationship is with my characters in my writing.
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