Resignation

     I've seen  the show, "The First 48" a few times, and all I can think of is that Dorothy would have liked watching it.  She, until the end was approaching, enjoyed crime shows.  For the 7 or 8 of the final years of her life, she would be in my house during the weekends, and on Sunday evening she would watch CSI, or whatever the show was called, while I worked on the New York Times Crossword.  She seldom cried, she said, but the hauntingly eerie theme music at the end would bring her to tears.  She said she didn't know why.  I thought I did.
   Pretty much whenever I watch TV attentively enough to find any point of interest, I find myself mentally commenting to her.  I don't address her directly, not yet anyway, but my problem in life is that everything is essentially meaningless unless I can relate it to another person, and she was my last resource in that respect.  And there is no one left to take her place.  Whenever I look in a cookbook to follow a recipe, I want to talk to her; I know I can't but I try anyway. 
   One of my deepest regrets is not going with her to one of those "mystery nights" that she mentioned she thought would be fun.  It was expensive, about $500 each for  a weekend at a Lake George hotel.  I wish, too late, that we'd gone.