“I miss my partner”

—“Ya know,” said my aquacise-instructor. “That nature-center rents cross-country ski equipment; or else go online. You do that anyway. I’m sure you’d find something.”
“I think I could still do it.”
“I bet you could,” said my aquacise-instructor. This is despite my wonky balance that aquacise-instructor treats.
I had to explain. Facebook notified me that she, among others, was interested in cross-country skiing at a nearby nature-preserve.
I clicked that, prompting my off-the-wall response that I gave away my cross-country skis after my wife died, and now wish I hadn’t.
“I no longer have my partner,” I added, almost crying.
“But there are so many things you’ve done,” that aquacise-instructor said.
“But there are so many things I haven’t done,” I thought to myself; “lacking my partner.”
“You should do Yosemite,” another lady-friend tells me.
“But I no longer have my partner,” I say.
“Do it with a tour-group,” my friend says.
“A tour-group isn’t my partner,” I say.
Yellowstone, Royal Gorge Suspension Bridge, Grand Tetons at dawn, Pikes Peak highway, plus all the railfan pilgrimage spots we visited, two in CA.
All with my partner.
She always loved hanging out with me, even after she got cancer.
We visited Altoona (PA) once to chase trains with an Altoona railfan.
She probably was hurting — but she wouldn’t tell me.
We went to a spot south of our bed-and-breakfast, and were gonna head back north along the railroad.
My wife was gonna get out at our bed-and-breakfast to return to our room. But she changed her mind. Hurting or not she wanted to continue with me.
My wife was extraordinary. Over 76 years on this planet I’ve met thousands. Only four were extraordinary. Three were female, and one I married.
“Extraordinary” is intense interest in anything I said. Plus the ability to comprehend what I said: big words, figures of speech, obtuse concepts, whatever. I never had to explain anything, and extraordinaries say things worth thinking about.
I was extremely lucky to marry an extraordinary. Graduate that I am of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations — an utter scumbag. Despicable and rebellious according to my parents.
I was fussy; more inclined to go it alone than compromise. I walked away from a really nice girl, because I knew it wouldn’t work. Another girl was way too easy, and her perception of me was wrong.
I’m also sure my wife felt she deserved no better than me. She had a difficult childhood herself. I was difficult to live with, but apparently immensely interesting. My wife always loved things I said.
A couple years after my wife died I went on a fall-foliage railfan excursion out of Conesus (NY). 30-40 mph through dense woods: the old Erie (Railroad) Rochester branch.
A club official collared me after our return, and asked if I enjoyed the excursion.
“More-or-less,” I said.
“What do you mean ‘more-or-less’?”
“I miss my wife,” I said. “She’d be with me if she hadn’t died.”
My other problem is my dog. Do anything at all and I hafta arrange for my dog. Plus that dog wants me around.
Last year a lady-friend wanted to treat me to a movie in celebration of my 75th birthday.
“My dog is waiting,” I said. In other words, I refused.
I doubt I’ll get cross-country ski equipment, and doubt I’ll do that nature-center. To do so means leaving my dog alone in my house.
And worst of all: no partner.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• I’m a railfan.