I think it’s sort of obvious, but maybe it’s not, my obsession with Warsaw.
I thought, for a long time, that we could move down there and live for free. That I could be a full-time writer. And have more time with the kids.
As a writer, money is very important. Who makes it. Where it comes from. And how much.
Because there is so little money in it. So very, very little. And writing takes time. Time that would otherwise be spent making money.
The money has to come from somewhere. Just to cover the basics.
So of course, Warsaw was like a dream to me. The house. The history. The pond.
And a mortgage that’s paid for.
Of course, I fixated on it. It’s only logical, I think. To me. As a writer, looking for a life that can sustain it.
But as it turns out, I was wrong. As I am, about so many things.
The property taxes and insurance cost more than our current mortgage. It isn’t free. If we moved down there, I’d have to work more than I do now (I work 30 hours now, instead of 40, which is the only thing that keeps me sane).
And then there’s Chase and his care. And paying for it, which is more important than anything, really.
The only way to cover it is to sell Warsaw.
Death isn’t pretty. And in this case, it just goes on and on.
I visited Chase at the VA the other day. I brought Chase’s dog that we’ve been watching for over a year. A dog he can never take back, but that he loves to see. I brought doughnuts and magazines.
Chase talked about Warsaw. The day lilies are coming up in Virginia and he said, “I planted them in the front steps. Of Warsaw.”
I said yes. I hadn’t seen them, but I remembered them. I said I hadn’t been down to the house in awhile. But they were beautiful, we both agreed.
And it was so difficult. It’s so sad. I know he wants to go home but he can’t. He’s eighty-nine and can’t even walk. I want things to be different, but they can’t.
I’m trying to be a good person. To do the right thing. But I don’t feel like one.
There are no easy answers.
The worst of it is that it’s already over, all of it, already. Warsaw and Chase and the kids and being there, together. And there’s no getting it back.
It’s the way the world works, I know. Nothing more. But that doesn’t make it any easier.
And I think that’s why I’ve been writing about it. To understand it. To make meaning of it. For myself, if for no one else. To let go of it. In one way or another.