I don’t know what to say about a day kept indoors.  It wasn’t purposeful, I just knew that if I left the house, I’d spend more than was absolutely necessary on food and tomorrow, I suspect, there will be some sort of Sunday Luncheon with the parents and right now, I can’t be out and about buying everything that comes to mind.  Speaking of that, the only thing that is coming to mind to write about is just whatever randomness has settled in my short-term memory and when that is expelled and depleted, I will turn back on my heels and dive head-first into my long-term memory where there may be one or two things that have yet to be mentioned on these here pages.

So, as noted a few days ago…a day ago, oh, damn that memory, the case of the mystery spots of blood has been solved.  It was the littlest, wee-est black cat.  She had been sent to hospital for half a minute and now the cat has been stitched up and she’s got a cone on her head to keep her from pulling them out, so that’s a positive situation.

I have done a bit of cleaning.  Hope to do a good day of it tomorrow.  No need for the little things to start living in corners when they have real homes. It is strange how I can go away for just a pair of nights and suddenly, my tray table becomes the home of every plastic bottle ever formed, every wrapper, every strange condiment I pulled from our spice cabinet for the melange of foodstuffs I found to cook in avoidance of going out to eat.  Strange, weird,  less than ideal is what I mean to say.  The Faithful Light as always has high hopes for my recovery – which is inevitable – but she would prefer it now rather than later.  I would like to amuse her by doing right again so soon after doing wrong.

I have finished Tiny Beautiful Things.  I wonder if I mentioned that yesterday.  What a perfect book.  I feel as though I could start re-reading it tomorrow and find it equally revelatory.

In some ways I do feel sharp as a woody branch of a rose bush, studded up with thorns and stay back glares.  It’s just today, I know.  It’s just this Saturday of recovery.  It’s just this being on my own.  It’s just this letting the embers cool on the story out of doubt.   It’s just this one more engagement photo.  It’s just this email thread.  It’s just this pound of sugar and this pound of flesh.

I am remembering Italy which was just less than a year ago.  I am remembering the magical, bitter espresso that for a time, destroyed all jet lag, all fear, all doubt.  I am remembering the awkward cobble stones under my feet.  I am remembering the Cafe of the Angels and their pasta with sesame seeds and creamy, buttery sauce.  I am remembering walking through the Garbatelle, keeping quiet because it was late.  I am remembering the holy echoes at St. John’s Cathedral.


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