Day Five: One moment at a time
Wild Musings with Renne Magnusson
6:15a.m. I do a double take at the end of my 10 hour midnight shift as a psw to people with mental or physical challenges. Shelly’s mermaid hair is braided down her sweaty bare back as I help her into the shower but one long strand has fallen loose and coiled into a loopy heart. I describe it to Shelley and we talk about how now she’s going into the shower and it’ll be lost without anyone else ever seeing it.
“But I did,” I told her. “And I told you so now you know and you can carry that in your heart all day and share it with whoever you want. Or no one at all. But you know it existed.”
7:10a.m. I drive pass a park blanketed with fog. That’s a cliché but really is the best way to describe it. I feel thankful for the moisture it’ll provide.
7:15a.m.ish I check on my Dad and step-mom’s house on my way home to pick up the mail and drop off a new book from a friend and local author while they are out of town. Scraps of mist hide in shady garden pockets. Sandy has highlighted things in silver: a ceramic bird’s beak and tail, birds on an iron sculpture and the top of a lantern hanging from a lilac tree. Silver highlights shimmer in the red sunrise. I pick up a book Dad has left for me. It fits comfortably in my hands, its spine well-creased, its pages soft, almost to the point of furring.
8:00a.m. onwards I chat with my hubby, Rob, who is just waking up on the couch where he always sleeps. He had been to emergency last night for an ever-expanding sore on his shin. He’d waited for 2 weeks for an ‘urgent’ biopsy through the doctor but was told the wait list is taking a month so the doctor recommended he go to emergency. He spent hours at emergency and fills me in on what happened. Bottom line: he had a biopsy and he has medicinal honey slathered on his shin and wrist, wrapped in a bright white netted bandage, startlingly white against his dark Asian skin. He shows me with his thumb and forefinger how much medicinal honey the nurse put on. Twice. “It must be expensive stuff,” he says. He tells me he stopped to pick up eggs and humus. I perk up at humus. He is the grocery shopper and we haven’t had humus in forever. In the kitchen I search for it. He picks up a pumice stone. “See?”
“I thought you said humus. That’s disappointing. I was excited for humus.”
“Pumice. Exciting for our feet.”
He says it Canadian: poomis. My British accent says it pewmis but my humus is hoomus just like Rob’s. I laugh at the mistake, at our talking cross-purposes, and spend the rest of the time before I go to sleep saying humus and pewmis and poomis to myself. And I feel comforted by medicinal honey which sounds earthy and natural and not at all what I expected from the hospital and I imagine it sloughing off all the crusty bits of his sore as he works at his dusty desk in the accounting office. A shin full of medicinal honey. Not the worst way to begin a day.
10:15a.m. I revel in the lightness of the purple sheet over me as I set the alarm for 12:45a.m. and feel the wafts of already warm air from the fan. Trains and planes and neighbourhood chainsaws have already started so I put in my earplugs.
1:15p.m. I wake up and pee, realise I’ve slept through the alarm and even if I could wake up now I’ll have missed most of the live full moon ceremony for Moonshine 2021 cos my computer takes longer to wake up than I do. I slide back under the sheet, careful not to nudge my tortie cat off the bed. I’ll have to catch Effy’s replay. She’s terrific like that.
4:30p.m. I’m angry. Two minutes later! It feels like just two minutes since I snuggled into the pillow. But no, three hours. A good sleep then. Never long enough when I work midnights but then that’s my fault. I fight it, pushing myself beyond feeling sleepy to feeling like I will never need sleep again as long as I live. Phone messages about a specialist appointment for Rob on Monday. The woman’s voice, the timbre, has the kindness of everyone’s favourite grandma and she (her name is Diane) speaks my name as though we’ve been friends forever. I feel, again, comforted by the direction of this unexpected journey.
Day 232 #365daysofsybwriting #365daysofhaiku
hangs between lilac branches
misty morning guide
Welcome! I'm Sue Blott: a writer of all things, a poet at heart, mom, wife, daughter, step-mom, grandma, tea drinker, tai chi-er, mystic, artist, dreamer...and now a blogger! This is my world.