According to the US census, more than one-quarter of older adults live alone, one out of five men and one out of three women Nearly half of women over 75 live by themselves.

 

1.

I live alone. Husband dead. No kids. My dog can’t hear anymore. God is the only one left who might be listening. He doesn’t answer, not in words. I can’t go out to lunch with God. He’ll never bake me a birthday cake. I can’t ask Him to fix my laundry room light or the gate that won’t stay shut. He’s not a handyman. He’s God.

 

2.

“Are you ever really alone?” shouts Fr. Joseph during his homily. We shout back, “No!” because that’s the answer he’s looking for, and he’ll keep asking until he gets it. “Jesus is always with us,” he says. Maybe my faith is full of holes. But I don’t see Jesus getting in the car with me after Mass or walking with me into my house, where I stand in the kitchen in my church clothes and ask: Now what?

 

3.

People talk to my dog. They call her pretty, sweet, darling. They pet her white muzzle and tell her about their dogs. They don’t see me at the other end of the leash. But dogs talk to me. Winnie, the Corgi on Cedar; Bella, the Border collie on Birch; and Boo-Boo, the Pomeranian on Spruce come running to say hello. They listen, sympathy in their brown eyes. I wish they could come home with me.

 

4.

My telephone rings. I answer hello. I hear the “boop” of a recorder turning on. A stranger asks how I am, then quizzes me about my insurance or asks if I’d like to sell them my house. Sometimes they’re taking a survey, but when I interrupt with a question, they don’t respond. They’re robots, recorded voices recording me. I ask the phone company to block these calls. The phone stops ringing.

 

5.

If I stood waving in the middle of Highway 101, would anyone stop their car and talk to me? Would they call 911 to report a crazy woman blocking traffic? Would the police make me walk the line and take a breathalyzer test? Would they take me to the hospital, where the doctors might check my blood, my heart, my lungs, and ask if I’d had a blow to the head or suicidal thoughts? At least then someone would listen to me.

 

6.

Finding nothing wrong, would the doctors then toss me back into the world like an empty soda can, to land in the weeds, to rust among the cigarette butts and used condoms? Might a minor criminal doing his highway cleanup in an orange vest see me glinting in the sun and stuff me into his bag, or tuck me into his pocket with his keys and snuff can? Or would he, too, fling me back into the trees if I spoke?

 

7.

Hey God, my “Echo Dot” Alexa always answers me—but only when I remember to say her name first. It’s like that game Simon Says. If you don’t say, “Simon Says,” you’re out. If I say Alexa’s name by accident, she speaks, proof she’s always listening. If I say “God” first, will you answer me? How come when I stub my toe and holler your name, you never say a word?

 

8.

I feel like I’m always on the highway waving my hands, but nobody stops. I sing. People say, “That’s lovely” and continue on their way. I write. People say, “Such talent” and move along. I post on Facebook. People click “like,” “love,” “hug,” and “wow,” then scroll on, leaving me alone in the middle of 101 like a raccoon smashed on the yellow line, fur blowing in the breeze of passing cars. No one wants to touch the bloody corpse.

 

9.

Walking the dog in the neighborhood, I wave at neighbors driving by. Some wave back, but they never stop to chat. I don’t know their names, just their vehicles. Red mustang. White Toyota. Blue van. Tire truck guy. I’m the woman with the yellow dog.

 

10.

I live alone. Husband dead. No kids. My dog can’t hear anymore. Alexa doesn’t understand. God says nothing when I call. If my mother could see me now, she would cry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Sometimes I sit in my car and scream.

 

___

Sue Fagalde Lick, a former California journalist who escaped Silicon Valley, lives in the forest on the Oregon coast. Her books include Stories Grandma Never Told, Childless by Marriage, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, Dining Al Fresco with My Dog, and the novel Up Beaver Creek. Her current obsession is a Substack newsletter titled “Can I Do It Alone?”

Artwork by Shelley Lennox Whitehead