H-O-R-T-E-N-S-E

Once, I was young. I know what's it like to know so little, and in truth, I know just a tiny bit more than I did then. I have felt some things more deeply, like loss and happiness, and it's been a pleasure to share these feelings with you. Sometimes, I can't believe that anyone would want to read a grown man--a former prisoner, a murderer--ramble on about butter and the weather and other whatnots. Somewhere, in your busy lives, you manage to check-in with Curt G Jimenez and that has been very nice. Maybe, my life makes you feel better about your own.

Once, when I was young, I kept an old woman company at a family reunion. I didn't even know how I was related to her, only that she was old and alone. She told me that I knew so little, and that she knew just a tiny bit more than I did, but that this tiny bit made all the difference. Separated us, mentally and physically. I kept her company because I took pity on her, and she kept me company for, what I imagine was the same reason. A small boy, not yet old enough to engage in adult conversation, not young enough to be considered naive and in turn, adorable, dumb to so many perverse realities. No, I was not that child. I knew about certain things already, and people could tell that I knew. So this old woman stood by me and I, by her.

Why do you read this blog, anyways? Do you skip to the good parts? Are there any good parts? What are you waiting for? What are you seeking?

I feel like this old woman. There is too much to say, but sometimes, it's better not to say anything at all. I wonder how she died? Alone. Eating a piece of toast. Or, maybe, upon waking, waking, and then saying to herself, "What's the point?" and closing her eyes, forever. Perhaps, on a walk, thinking about the boy she met at a family reunion. Maybe, she had just enough time to stick her fingers in her mouth and taste the last thing she touched--a dollar bill, a porcelain plate, a butter knife.

When I was a boy, I asked an old woman at a family reunion if she ever carved her name into a tree. She laughed and shook her head and so, I took her to a tree and showed her how to cut into the bark with a pocketknife, steady, steady, firm. First, I carved my name, Curt. Then, I handed her the pocketknife and she started on her name, H-O-R- her hand wriggling under the pressure she applied, her breaths, sporadic. Her white hair bouncing. I wanted to hug her, to tell her I loved her. T-E-N-S-E.

I don't know where the tree is. I wonder if it still exists.

Hortense, I wonder if it still exists.