Have Mask, Will Travel...The store was huge and there were scarcely any cars in the parking lot. It was 7:00 on a Saturday evening and it was the Fourth of July. People in upstate New York had better places to be than Hannaford’s Supermarket, but I wanted coffee when I woke up in the morning.
The long green stems of the chives on our balcony swayed in the breeze and we went out to sit in the waning light of the day. Rosemary had noticed the chives; she is often the one who creates little spaces in our day, openings for us to attend to and appreciate the world.
The new chemo drug seemed to be hard at work, doing its job. It was the side effects that were hard to manage. Rosemary had been, reluctantly, on around-the-clock oxycodone for several days. The pain in her shoulder had been with her for six months, increasing with the passing time. The MRI had showed it was from her cancer. [Click on title to read entire post]
On my way home from the Farmer’s Market with flower and tomato plants in my wire cart, and more plants in bags hanging off each of my shoulders, I met a woman who lives on our floor. We stopped to chat. “Those should grow well on your balcony.” [Click on title for full post]
“Come!” our friends urged, “We have fish in the freezer and we can heat up the pool. The deck is lovely this time of year. You can sleep in the guest room or in the den, wherever you would feel more comfortable.” It sounded so enticing. We hadn’t been anywhere in three months except to the hospital...
I had barely taken a breath of appreciation for the declining virus numbers, when the news ramped up about the Second Wave. I looked out my bedroom window, beyond the Bossert Hotel, past Brooklyn Bridge One, to the mingled arms of red and blue cranes at the Red Hook Terminal, which docked the Queen Mary 2 in healthier days.
This morning, the headline in the Hartford Courant read, “Some ‘good news’ as hospitalizations drop.” I had lived in Connecticut for many years and still had family and friends scattered around the state, so I followed events in our neighboring state with more than an intellectual curiosity.
“Do you want time to slow down?” the McCall’s magazine article asked, or maybe it was the Ladies’ Home Journal or Good Housekeeping, or one of the other magazines to which my young mother subscribed. “Spend more time at the dentist,” declared the author, causing me, at age nine, to rethink any wish I may have had around slowing down time, for going to the dentist caused me enormous dread. Besides, at that age, I was more likely to want time to speed up than to slow down.