Ain’t dead yet

—Recently an 82-year-old widow-friend moved out of her home of 45 years into what might be assisted-living. Except she’s still independent, and cooks for herself.
So now another of my widow-friends is badgering me to do the same. I’m 76 and she’s only 66.
Interestingly this is the same lady who a few years ago advised me to be more forward with another lady-friend. I argued against that at least 45 minutes, but finally acquiesced.
It’s the biggest mistake I ever made, probably ruining any possibility of ever becoming friends with a lady who I consider significant. Suddenly I was a lonely, hot-to-trot widower.
My counselor later weighed in: “Yer not *****. You’ll make many more lady-friends being yourself.”
Which is what happened. I’m apparently a charmer, and all I do is talk — no grab-ass. And women seem to love talking.
Arrayed against this one “move-out” advisor is a phalanx of others. Most important is my doctor.
“You’re fine,” he says.
“As long as you can hike that 2.8 miles on Lehigh Valley RailTrail without incident you shouldn’t move.”
I admit my balance is terrible. I’m still on my feet, and no cane yet, although I have to concentrate hard, and grab walls etc.
What got much better is my ability to offset worsening balance. I hardly fall anymore because I’m always doing things to offset falling.
“Do you wanna move?” A lady-friend asked.
“No,” I said.
“So don’t,” she said. “It’s your life!”
I always feel my father gave up too early. He cut loose even before my younger sister finished college.
My parents moved to south FL into a retirement community. My sister had to return home to that.
I don’t think my parents were in their 70s yet. They woulda been in their 60s when my sister turned 20.
“Maybe you should move,” an older widow-friend says. She’s in her 80s and has eyes that sparkle.
“But only if you think you should,” she said. “It’ll be your decision.”
I ask around, and everyone tells me to not move yet.
The only one telling me to move is that lady I no longer listen to. A year after my first attempt at being more forward, she advised I try again.
“No way José!” I shouted. “Once burned, twice shy!
I lost a good friend because of that. I try and I try, but too much damage.”
“You’re not *****,” my counselor says. “Just be yourself.”
So I guess I’m staying put. “If you say so,” I told my sparkly-eyed widow-friend. She’s well over 80 and lives by herself.