THE DAY, THE SWALE

Not so happy anniversary.

Now, I suppose, the lush and sweet good sleep is at an end. I did not have a good night after some very good indeed nights. I felt a little creaky, what with uncomfortable knees and such.

Janet, on the other hand, is back to using her walker. During the three weeks that I was in New York, her knees and her right hip have been terribly painful. She said she just got up from the rocking chair and felt as if her legs would not support her.

This is not a mood elevator.

A bit later.

Her geriatrician prescribed some Tramadol for her pain. Given that it is a controlled substance, I gave her half of a dose. We think the drug is contributing to her spaciness and weakness. Her doctor does not believe in medical marijuana, but that is where I am going to try next. 

Old age is rather scary, folks, and that train is headed straight for your station.

I am in that weightless (I should be so lucky) state of anxiety now. My usual purchase would be despair but I kick away from there. There is also the anniversary of waking up to the Orange Shitgibbon in power. I so well remember that painful morning, full of dismay, disorientation, and désespoir (no, not quite the same as despair). The next few days felt murky and distant, as if I were in a place both muffled and pained. 

Well well well ... no hip replacement for La Mama, but physical therapy will be added to the schedule. Sigh. I think I need to take a nap and calm myself. Fortunately, I have the new Philip Pullman, La Belle Sauvage, to escape into.

Hours of self-soothing later... pleased that I am feeling sleepy again. I need to hit that 10:00 pm window or I go into insomnia. Sleep is likely a better refuge than alcohol or food or bad tv (confession: watching This Is Us. Don't disdain me. I am not paying much attention.)

MORNING

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes.
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.

— Billy Collins, Picnic, Lightning, Pittsburgh, University of Pittsburgh Press, 1998