Friday the thirteen again.
This only makes me ponder those three we had back in 2012
that seemed to coincide with critical moments of that year.
This is not friggatriskaidekaphobia.
In January, I learned the death of my uncle; In April, I was
deeply infatuated with the poet, and in July, I was already plotting how I could
wish her a happy birthday.
Three such Fridays in one year happens only three or four
times each century. The last one occurred in 1984 when I was still living in
Passaic, and had just broken up with Fran, and was in the midst of affairs with
Sapphire and her best friend, Maryann (neither knowing I was involved with the
other).
The next time will be 2040, which I’m unlikely live to see (and
only partly hope I do)
As with 1984, 2012 was one of those years in which I lost
myself, and have yet to fully recover from (slow, painfully pulling myself back
together).
Oh, I’ve had ill luck on this day a few times, such as when the
police pulled my car over on the highway, found out the car wasn’t registered
and towed it away, leaving me and my best friend to walk to the next exit to a phone
booth – the same friend who called me out of the blue in June 1969, asking me if
I wanted to go to the shore with him and the boys for the weekend, a drunken,
drug laden three days which we barely survived.
I do not suspect anything will happen today out of the ordinary,
but one never knows.
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