SATURDAY AFTERNOON AT THE AUTUMN CAFE by Betty Badgett

SATURDAY AFTERNOON AT THE AUTUMN CAFE

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                        It’s a beautiful sunny warm afternoon, and I’m sitting on the back yard

                        patio of the Autumn Café’ with my writing buddy Natalie.  I took a

                        a break from all the cleaning and packing and decided to spend a moment

                        writing.

                         My life is going through a metamorphosis at this moment.  After having my

                         house on the market for the past three years since my husband passed,

                         I finally sold it.  For the past month there has been one inspection after

                         another. There’s portions of my life to pack away in boxes. There’s

                         things to gather together to be donated to the good will.  All pieces of my

                         life from the past eighteen years.

                         Natalie and I decided that since our writers group was on hiatus for the month

                         of June, that we would meet, have lunch and find a quiet place we could

                         sit and write.  We could concentrate on work we started, work that we are

                         editing or start something new. So, I did some editing and then decided to

                         put my feelings on paper.

                         Making the decision to pack up and sell the house was not an easy decision

                         to make.  Although, I knew I didn’t want to stay here in the North East with

                         out any family close by, I was torn inside.

                         Giving up the home I shared with my husband for the past eighteen years

                          meant giving up apart of myself, my independence, my connection to my

                          husband.. Although he was no long there in the flesh, his spirit was there

                          with me.  Bringing me comfort, sometimes tears. Leaving my home, closing

                          the door to the house would mean closing the door to my heart, to my

                          memories. How could I?

                          I took a moment from writing and putting my feelings on paper, as we

                          sipped a glass of wine and began talking and laughing.  So nice to have

                          a friend.