TOWARD SOME KIND OF RETURN

3 of 100

Nina is very fixedly watching the rain. She appears to be hypnotized or possibly despairing. There is also the possibility that she is just a cat. Later. She has given up standing and resorted to napping, but still facing the window. The ground is sopping as are many of the cardboard boxes of Vernon Kilns dishware and ceramics left to me by Anita and Carole (half-niece, half-sister). Fortunately, they won't rot but will be a mess to clean up.

The wind is picking up. The now naked fig tree bounces to the gusts, as do the unruly arms of the orange bougainvillea which desperately needs a trim. Sebastian, my poor yard man, called me so many times this week to see if I wanted any work done that I finally relented. I spent more than I wanted to, but I felt I had to help out a fella. He's not really a gardener and has killed so many plants that now I have to walk around and point out specific things to do and not do. 

The garden will be very happy. The artichoke plant that I cannot kill is huge already. I must have harvested a dozen artichokes last year. The fennel is fluffed like a stately, exotic bird. The fennel is there mostly for the butterflies. The spindlelyness of the fig, the pomegranate, and the pepper tree look so black and naked against the lushness of the overgrown grass and the bougainvillea. I still have many tangelos to harvest. Going out to pick a Meyer lemon when you need one is also groovy. This is the first year it has produced so much fruit. 

Oh well. I would rather sit here in my cozy jammies surveying the yard, sipping coffee, listening to music, however, the Janet show needs to get on the daily road. Today will be my last yoga/Pilates session with Sonia until my knee gets sorted out. Tomorrow is supposed to be sunny before the next storm hits, so I should be able to get more done outside. 

There are all these protocols I need to follow before surgery. MRSA is such a threat that I am supposed to take a shower every day, wait two hours, and then very carefully clean myself with special wipes, as well as using some strong antibacterial stuff in my nose. I hope I don't die of boredom (or pain) in the hospital. 

I haven't been for an overnight in the hospital since I got that black widow bite in New York City (where there are no black widows). That was memorable due to our nurse, Clover. The woman in the bed next to me moaned and screamed in pain, begging for pain relief. In a Jamaican drawl that was somehow still clipped she said, "That's morphine, honey. Don't get no better than that." The entire scene was very Paddy Chayefsky. Maybe I will try to find The Hospital and stream it while I am there.

January 6

But just barely.

Janet is still hacking. I gave her some hot lemon and honey which works better than all the Robitussin and Mucinex together. She is finally calming down.

It was a challenging day, for all my efforts to make it otherwise. Janet foiled any plans to get her out of the house to dominoes in time for me to get to my Pilates on time, so, much to her disappointment, she staid home. She takes up more and more of my time and there is no streamlining that I can find.

I see now why I have resorted to drinking and overeating for the years I have been here. It's as if I every day I am starting from below the ground and have to work my way emotionally and psychologically to even hit an even ground. Things were better when I had a strong yoga practice, going to class 4-6 times a week. Janet was going too, so she was in better fettle. She is losing muscle mass and strength. 

I need to sleep.

SNOW

We are left, finally, to decide why

the world goes, and we with it,

toward some strange kind of return.

This morning, before morning, I dreamed

of snow falling thickly through trees.

When I awakened, snow was falling

I put on the shoes of separation

took the road of wandering, and walked out

to find a red heifer unblemished.

I spoke my name to the mountain

and waited to hear a word returned.

Nothing but the wind moved.

In less than an hour my tracks

were covered over, and still the snow

fell thick through the cedars

like dust, dust that at last would rise.

— William Virgil Davis, One Way to Reconstruct the Scene, Yale University Press, 1980