“Next Time” Is All

Trotsky in exile, staring out at the Black Sea.  No one is aboard the boat that he can talk to, save his wife and family.  No adoring crowds to wave off the former head of the Red Army the way there was, a year earlier when he was exiled to Alma Atty.  The crew of the large freighter, the Ilyitch, a have all been told to keep their distance.  He’s off to a neighboring country where the local government may or may not be able to protect him from the hostile White émigrés

who also reside in Turkey. 

I would very much like to just continue to read this morning.  I’ve finished two of the three books in this series “The Prophet” and though we’re heading for a piercing, unfortunate end, I am captivated by this individual and eager to see how he passes out his final twelve years.  And there are simply too many things that await my attention this morning.  Sunday morning only lasts for a few hours and then it’s the day before Monday. 

A local bakery comes to our clubhouse area and sets up a table outside the super market some weekends.  A middle-aged guy with an over eager eye waits by the door.  “Bagels” he says, when I walk in to the market.  “Bagels” he says, when I walk back outside with my arms full of groceries.  “Next time” is all I can tell him.  They’d have to be awfully good bagels, like the kind we used to get at Kosars on Grand St. near Essex St.  They’re not.

I feel sorry for this vendor of pasty bagels but there’s nothing to be done.  Instead I trot over to the guy selling the flowers.  He’s got bouquets of roses and lilies and lilacs, but I ask him the cost of a bunch of the purple wild flowers he has.  He says four dollars I ask him if he’ll do three.  He will.  Then I ask him if he’ll be here tomorrow.  He wont.  So I get a simple bouquet for my wife.  Tomorrow is our anniversary.  Last year we went to Venice for our twentieth.  Twenty-one will be a bit more simple. 

Sunday, 03/18/18