January 2, 2026
I couldn’t bring myself to offer more than lukewarm hospitality to the friend we invited for dinner on Christmas Day. I wasn’t responding to anything in particular that she did, or did not do. I was channeling my inner Greta Garbo, and regretted that I had issued the invitation almost as soon as the words left my mouth. But, a commitment is a commitment.
More than a week later, she hasn’t called to reiterate appreciation for dinner, an uncharacteristic lapse. I can only conclude that she felt my lack of welcome as a sort of repudiation. The fine art of social dissimulating has always eluded me, which could explain my near-hermit-level solitude.
Do I feel a secret sense of relief that this casual friendship may be easing out of my life? Do I want to isolate myself even further?
Or is it simply that on the life tree that represents my relationships, interests, and activities, she has become a leaf that is falling away, drifting toward the sere autumn ground already littered with former friendships and previous occupations?
*****
Other relationships are undergoing dissolution through the acid of entropy, heading toward ultimate annihilation. I was pondering what “message” I might be receiving from witnessing my elderly mother’s deterioration. The thought flitted through my head: This is what you will be spared.
That would represent quite the miracle. Med beds? Solar flare? It’ll take divine intervention, or a secret infusion of off-planet genes, to spare me the fate that befell my entire family of origin (and at least one set of ancestors, on my father’s side).
My mother was diagnosed with “mild to moderate cognitive and memory impairment” many years ago, with a formal Alzheimer’s diagnosis a couple years back, but she’s been victimized by cognitive decline for fifteen years and has not been independent for nearly twenty years.
I use the verb “victimized” advisedly. Whatever karma or soul contract may be involved, the spooling out of misery over a span of decades seems excessive. I blame DNA manipulation (and deliberate poisoning through “medicine” and environment) by the dark forces who have farmed humanity to feed their unholy appetites over the millennia.
My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in his early 70s – a timeline destination my own life will reach much too soon. My brother experienced severe mental deterioration before his death a decade ago.
The leaves from my family tree are falling away through the auspices of disease, dissolution, and decay. My father existed in wretched circumstances for the last five years of his life, passing away in his early 80s (stealthily aided by a kindly nurse with a morphine drip), and my brother lived only to his early 60s. It seems miraculous that my mother is still here, in her late 90s. (Her internist always says: It’s because you take such good care of her, Catherine.)
What soul purpose is it serving for her to be here, experiencing increasing levels of misery? What purpose is served by my being caregiver/witness?
*****
Universe has such a sense of humor. As I’m bemoaning the demise of my family, the son of longtime neighbors shows up at the door with a friend. “Hi! We were wondering, do you have any jobs you’d like us to do? For cash? Like weeding?”
They’re out there now, oblivious to the incipient rain or the buffeting wind. At thirteen, Shaun is already taller than me, reflecting his father’s lofty height. His friend is several inches shorter, with a shock of wild blonde hair and a cheeky grin.
In a fit of whimsy, I contemplate a changing of the guard. Old leaves blowing away and fresh green shoots taking their place. Will I still be around when these two are in their thirties? Will my elderly mother transition well before then, as third-dimensional wisdom expects?
Perhaps she and I will both partake of the solar flare renewal, or med bed treatments. A restoration of sanity for her, and a resetting of biological clocks for both.
Perhaps Shaun and his young friend will be piloting their personal air transport, or winking between dimensions like a native Fifth D-er. Because isn’t that what they are? Born into a fifth-dimensional template, needing only the rest of this world to catch up?
I put aside my gloomy musings, and ponder what young teenage boys will purchase with their well-earned funds. I’m sure it will be something fun and not practical. I may take a page from their book and do a little shopping of my own. For something fun, not practical.
