The one thing I know...

or don’t know, I should say, is the uncertain certainty by which the standard relationship, or in this case, the lack there of, should live by. What’s the long and short of it? What’s the conclusion to what I’ve begun to talk about? For our three-year anniversary Candace has decided to move to Texas. Don’t fret – she wants me to come with her…phew. I mean, it’s like driving down to the shore for the weekend right?

You might be thinking...something...I don’t know what it is but I’m sure it’s something. I know I’ve been thinking some things too – everything from ‘Thanks for the photographs and memories’ to ‘What size boots should I be fitting myself for’. I already have a belt buckle and plenty of Longhorns gear now all I need an internal cooling system and a way to make the leaves turn colors during the Fall. Do they serve Porterhouse chicken or tofu brisket?

Croce might be wondering if he’ll have to write a Part II although the original is plenty accommodating. He’ll be pleased, I’m sure, to hear that it won’t be the last of our summer skies and lullabies as I have intended to make it work. And why not? I am certainly no stranger to the crazy happenstances of life. It is but just another hurdle in this wacky world we live in.

A part of me will die, sure. It’s typical during death to feel sadness, I suppose, when it should really be a celebration – a celebration of the life that was lead. We’ve had a tremendous three years together and, should that be the end, well then, I hope one day I’m lucky enough to meet someone that will bring me the joy she has.

She has important decisions to make and things she needs to find out for herself in order to achieve her happiness. I understand the notion of wanting to be content in life and because I do I’m able to respect it. We know nothing of what our future holds except to be blessed the good Lord has provided us with a blue sky and two healthy legs to walk around and enjoy it.

In any case, I see this not as end but as a beginning. Either a beginning of a new life between Candace and I or a beginning to two new separate lives, each one forever living with a small piece of the other.

Panera's Box

I’m sorry Panera but I can’t eat your bread anymore. It has nothing to do with your fantastic taste or your great half-sandwich/half-salad deal. No, I wish it were that easy. It’s a psycho-logical thing. Yes, most certainly the logic of a psycho, a madman if you will, one who can’t control his brain from triggering a nauseous feeling upon the thought of entering your domain.

You see, after my treatments my Mom and I and those who sacrificed their day to stay with me, came to you to indulge in your goodness. My Mom’s a big fan as was I when it all began. For weeks, just the comfort of being in your chair masked the spins my stomach was having from the chemicals pumping their way through my veins. As time went on I had to disappoint my Mom and her devoted love affair with you because not even your friendly service or freshly baked bread could help take away the restlessness by which my body was reacting. Home was where I needed to be.

Now, like Pavlov’s dog, the thought of entering you again provokes obnoxious feelings I need not wish to reacquaint myself with. I realize it’s nothing you’ve done, but alas, it’s the way it has to be. Don’t feel bad you’re not the only one. Zest can’t be used either but he doesn’t know it yet. So as for now, I thank you for your Asian salad, your black bean soup, and the variety of your sandwiches. Maybe one day we'll see each other again. Until then, may your buns always be firm.