I woke up at 2:40 a.m., just me and the moon in my room, but even that felt crowded and I couldn’t return to sleep; felt wonky all day long.
I soap up in the shower, smelling the brackishness of the old farm's well water, water so soft it takes twice as long to remove the suds; watch seven robins hop and play in the backyard while a mockingbird on the clothesline feigns shy, cat-like meows at the small avian gathering below. I walk the inlet shoreline and breathe in the salty afternoon air as thousands of Atlantic Slipper shells crunch under foot.
I looked in on my sleeping daughter and laughed when I noticed she was sleeping upside down — her head was at the foot of the bed and her feet were on her pillow. I changed my outfit twice, ultimately settling on my favorite embroidered Mexican blouse, the black one with multicolored flowers; reposted a Facebook Memory photo of the great white egret that had strolled past our patio on this date last year. I used Google Maps on my way to my doctor’s appointment but I still got lost.
I wrote a poem for my friend in Cairo and wrote to an online contact about the importance of dreams in helping us grow; looked at a photo of my mother when she was younger and I could see myself; spent many housebound hours having conversations in my head with people I loved who are gone now. I watched an iguana make its way to the pond.
I watch a scary mystery in the morning with my wife and wonder what will the rest of the day bring? I listen to an audiobook of Louise Erdrich’s novel The Sentence. I handle a recently sharpened kitchen knife and recall times when I’ve cut myself as well as the several years I cut paper, in my twenties, for two print shops — the blade kept me up at night, I’ve never worked more carefully; I put my knife down gently.
I wake early and put the world in order; 7 a.m. and it’s time to use the new first-time-ever frother — life is lighter and more lovely — latte.
I wrote some haiku bedside before taking my morning shower; paid off a loan on a credit card and closed the account for good; spent three hours pulling all the crabgrass from the brick path to my front door. I collected all my old jewelry for my granddaughters to look through so they could choose what they want; ate a spoonful of peanut butter right out of the jar and drank a cold glass of lemonade mixed with green tea that was left over from breakfast. I filled the watering can to the top to feed the tomato, cucumber, and spearmint plants; took an early evening walk up the street to look through the offerings at the Little Free Library.
I watch squirrels use telephone wires as a highway to reach a hazelnut tree’s highest branches, knocking the ripe fruit to the ground where they then feast as if it is their last meal; pushing through city sounds of a continuous cacophony of sirens, motorcycles, and cars to find the silence within me — only to find incessant internal chatter.
I dreamed that the public library started a Poetry Society but I wasn’t invited to join — and instead of purchasing poetry books, the money they raised was used to buy fancy new lamps for a room that no one but its members are allowed to go into.
I spent an hour and a half on a narrow massage table while a big gentle man with massive hands pushed, pulled, and deeply tuned my every muscle and sinew. I shuffled through a shoebox of photographs labeled “Me” and had a good laugh at myself as I danced back and forth and in between all the phases of my life from 1947 until now.
I ate a granola bar before doing my boring PT exercises, stacked the dishwasher, fed the cat, and rode my stationary bike. I planted two dozen sunflower seeds even though I never get them to grow. I fed the birds and tried to shoo away the bully-bird blue jays. I read Hard Times and later I wanted to watch a Hamlet DVD but I was too tired.
I woke to early morning anxiety, stomach churning, both my ears aching; made a call to customer service to straighten out a problem with the phone bill, it was easily resolved, I felt tearful with gratitude and wished the customer service representative a blessed day, which is something I don’t ordinarily say; got off the phone and my stomach was no longer hurting but my ears were still ringing.
I went for a low-tide beach walk and was able to save a few of the starfish strewn over the sand. I prepared and froze a batch of pesto — the scent of basil filled my kitchen. I ended the day as usual, waiting for moonrise.
I woke long before day-break to sit quietly with a cup of tea, waiting for the birdsong; discovered my lost “to-do” list and found I could check off each of the 37 items but one. I remembered the childhood joy of sipping honeysuckle. I spoke to a stranger in the waiting room at my doctor’s office and three others joined the conversation — 30 minutes flew by. I ate just one bite of double chocolate 6-layer cake with salted caramel frosting and patted myself on the back for my restraint.
I went to an outdoor art fair and saw 12 people I know, most of them I like very much — none of them know one another — I didn’t get to talk to all of them, but just seeing people I recognize after all these months was very comforting. I met 5 new people at the fair, just brief conversations, but they were uplifting encounters, exactly what I’ve been craving.
I studied the moon before dawn, it isn’t supposed to be full until tonight, but it looked as full as a birthday balloon to me. I counted 2,160 minutes until I will be 80 years old, then worked on my poem titled, Forgive Time. I tried on the two new shirts I ordered online and the one I liked best fit best; read my MRI report, then read it again, but understood only a few words; reconciled my bank statement and didn’t find any mistakes by me or by the bank.
I started reading the first book in a new-to-me mystery series, chosen solely because I like the name of the heroine: Frieda Klein.
I sliced up overripe peaches for the kids and ate the skins myself — they were delicious (the peaches, not the kids). I attended book club via Zoom, and by the end of the meeting the sun was setting right in my eyes, but my hair glowed like a halo so it was worth it. I went into the basement to turn out the lights, but the fish stared at me until I fed them. I dumped out the dehumidifier — again! I wish I could ship all the water to my family in Utah.
I removed spent blooms from the Marguerite Daisies and was sad to see only a few new buds; sprinkled some cayenne pepper on the top of the bird feeder to discourage the squirrels from prying the top off with their tiny paw-hands. I watched a squirrel as she twirled around the pole to the bird feeder and I smiled, thinking how she might get a job as a pole dancer. What would be her stage name, I wondered. I took an evening walk, heard an Eastern Wood Peewee and an Eastern Kingbird, and wondered if they know they are Eastern birds.
I chat with the motel clerk in Richmond, Indiana — her shift starts at 6 a.m., six days a week — I am 1178 miles from home. I sit beneath the Illinois Welcome Center’s wide-armed maple tree, marigold moss and slate blue lichen inhabit its trunk; I am 1019 miles from home. I wander Casey, Illinois, home to a giant chair, yardstick, mouse trap, and mailbox in which I now sit — where should I send myself? — I am 923 miles from home. I drive toward sunset, which lasts and lasts here in Missouri — pink, plum, and swimming-pool blue. I am 836 miles from home. I drive and drive. Kingdom City is 5 miles ahead. August’s Sturgeon moon rises in my mirror.
I am recovering from a recent car accident and remembering other head injuries I’ve had: older boys rolled me down the large hill every morning on the way to kindergarten — I didn’t tell anyone; I jumped off the roof trying to break something so I could avoid a Junior High party; an oncoming car ran a stop sign on top of the hill and rammed my side of the car when I was driving the candidate for my boss’s job to lunch; another oncoming car failed to stop and hit me in the driver’s side, totaling my favorite black Rav 4; I was bucked off my horse when he spooked at a piece of paper caught in the fence.
I watched a swallowtail butterfly flit through the yard while it flashed its bright yellow wings over green grass, then alit on a dangling sweetgum leaf and merged with the foliage. I opened a new box of Cheerios and the inner bag burst in my hands — a cascade of “Oh, Oh, Ohssss” for breakfast. I slipped a get-well card for an ailing friend into the mailbox, then listened to a snippet of a warbler’s song, his tee-tweet tee-tweet, twirl twirl floating on light breezes.
I like to get out of bed at 7:24 a.m. and will even lie in bed awake some mornings waiting for that exact time; I walk laps around our living room, dining room, and kitchen most mornings while waiting for the tea water to boil; I check the weather on my phone and read a daily poem that is sent each day.
I went on a walk with my wife and our son who is visiting and our little over-reactive dog, Toby. When we see other dogs I pick Toby up and put one hand over his eyes so we can get by the other dog without him seeing it and making a big and loud fuss. The people with the other dogs often notice what I'm doing and give me a knowing smile.
I fixed one stone step leading down to our side yard that had been slumping downwards at a bad angle for over a year — it took about 15 minutes to remove the step, clear out the setting and reset it in place so it is firmly flat and stable. Yes, I wondered why I had not attended to this earlier but today it got done.
I have been spending time each day, for three weeks now, in our garage sorting out and decluttering the “way too much” that has been saved and stored there; it is like doing an archeological dig of the many pieces of my life. It has been easy to just sit out there rereading letters, magazines, newspapers, or books and feeling grateful that I have found them again and can recognize a reason why I saved them to begin with.
I take a walk out into the woods shortly before it is dark, just to be out there in a grove of trees on a slope where I can see the far western horizon where sunset day light lingers. Tonight, I saw four deer in the dusk and said little nothings to them, calling them sweetie and telling them it was okay.
I found a wolf spider in my toilet, scooped it into an old paint dish, then whisked it through the front door and coaxed it onto an azalea branch. I discovered the “z” scrabble tile among many loose puzzle pieces of my latest jigsaw — so that’s where it ended up!
I hugged an old friend and was so happy that I picked her up and spun her around. I ate yellow, orange, and purple carrots glazed with delicious honey.
I laughed out loud at the pigeons who are becoming romantically involved, as they passed a piece of hay back and forth between them — an act of sharing that precedes the building of a nest. I cried when I looked into the face of my beautiful husband, thinking about how I nearly lost him to a massive subdural hematoma.
I reveled in the goosebumps on my arms in the chill of the evening after too many hazy, hot, and humid days — the dreaded triple H. I stressed waaaay too much about having to be an adult. I daydreamed about my getaway — driving with no destination in mind and sleeping in the back of my car after a day of hiking with my dog, and sitting on the tailgate making art.
I woke feeling heavy with a big decision I have to make, about whether to carry on with plans for organizing a surprise party in September, complicated by some unforeseen circumstances that have recently popped up.
My husband offered a “get your mind off the problem” solution of checking off a few more libraries on my Mid-York Library Road Trip Summer Adventure that already includes 43 libraries visited, in three counties of New York. I dropped a coin on the map and we headed to the library where it landed, where we were greeted (or not) by a disinterested librarian who didn’t even offer any welcome, or care about how many libraries I’ve already visited. Later, in another town, a happy librarian invited us to come back anytime. We visited yet another library and after exiting through the Children’s Section we found ourselves in a small garden — I sat on a bench amid a labyrinth of hedges and black-eyed Susans and echinacea and came to a decision (or a semi-decision) about about what’s been troubling me.
I felt relieved that the day was so sharply sunny and perfect after all the recent heat but I was depressed and watched TV: The Closer, Major Crimes, Murder She Wrote. I did clean my bathroom and it cheered me up to get one thing done. After dark I went outside to see the moon but she had not yet risen so I went back home to watch more Major Crimes and I muted the commercials.
I was social: lunching with a former colleague and, later, celebrating the birthday of a bestie. I bought two new pairs of sunglasses that I absolutely did not need, but I’m glad I did it. I deadheaded the pink petunias and sat quietly awaiting the arrival of the hummingbird at the window box. I watched the kingfisher soar into the creek and emerge with a crayfish.
I read a chapter of Michael Lewis’s book, The Premonition: A Pandemic Story, and then switched gears to a Donna Leon mystery. I considered ironing my shirt, but does anyone still press a shirt anymore? I decided to wear it wrinkled.
I sat on my porch and tried not to worry that I wasn’t accomplishing anything, even though I worry about that all the time, and wish I could stop. I remembered, as I do almost every day, all the friends who have died in the last five years. I kissed my sweetheart’s forehead.
I woke up at 4:45, put the kayak in the lake, and paddled to see the moon set and sun rise. I sat around a campfire and listened to intimate stories from people that I barely know. I found the courage to say no and gave myself permission to say yes. I wondered what the answer would be to a question that I forgot to ask. I arrived home from a camping trip and breathed a long sigh of relief and gratitude for all that is familiar, for all that holds me, for all the tomatoes waiting to be picked.
I tried to write some lyrics about the heat, but because it was too hot I took a beer and shared it with a bee, two wasps, and three flies. I lay down on the almost dry grass and while listening to the crickets' song I started humming an old lullaby. I stopped to talk with a retired teacher who was listening to the music of the artesian fountain and urged him to start writing his memoirs, for he had seen a lot in his life. I watched the sunset drip from a cracked watermelon left on a stall and suddenly remembered that I needed to call my mother and tell her I miss her.
I fall asleep, confidently, with a red flower in my hair.
Contributors:
Alan Bern
Ann Carter
Anne Killian-Russo
Antonia Matthew
Barrie Levine
Blue Waters
Carole MacRury
Deborah Burke Henderson
Ellen Orleans
Florin C. Ciobica
Jennifer Marshall
Jim Mazza
Judy Cogan
Julie Bloss Kelsey
Kath Abela Wilson
Kathleen Kramer
Lou Robinson
Marcie Wessels
Margaret Walker
Pris Campbell
Theresa A. Cancro
Tina Wright
Tom Clausen
Zee Zahava
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