There is very little that is poetic about an air-still produce stand and its baskets of wilted mornings and sweltering afternoons. I can barely eke out a rhyme against the fading wails of droopy hydrangea heads. But, as they sometimes say in the deeper Southern backforties: that don’t make no never mind. July’s weather weighs less and less on our weary minds.
Jon and I rejoice in waking up each morning, trying not to be first to check if the other breathes. We pay attention to our pets and nurture them as they, us.
We catalog our medications and scoff-little at their dispense. Whether we rank, alphabetize, or create some new pharmaceutical order, we quietly tend to our meds. It’s an activity.
My beloved and I just try to pass each day with smiles and kind words. We celebrate those rare days when neither of us is under a thunderstorm or, as you’d probably say: weather.
On every third Thursday, we venture into town. We seem to rejoin some surrealist circle of humanity. We wrest validation on some silly notion that to see our therapist, the same but separately, preserves any remaining social skills. Jon and I enthusiastically make it a day: marketing and fetching prescriptions. It’s an activity.
We never, though, ever take our eyes of the prize. We muddle. We putz. We dawdle.
It’s an activity.
September is nigh, dressed in new colors, ripping that pink from the rafters! Our mornings once again will get dressed before noon.
Jon will have his vampires. I shall have my zombies.
Ah. Indulgent, naughty activities rock with a “right” racy roll.
(Image by Aleksandr Kostetsky.)