Forgiven

I sat on the couch after we got home. D crashed on the bed - sleeping off the drugs. Moby hopped up beside me, and scrunched up. I laid a hand on his back, and he slowly uncoiled, until fully stretched out, then turned belly-up, front paws curled, under my hand. I indulged my ditherment with small claims court TV, and a cup of tea, keeping still to gently hold a moment of perfect peace. All is well.

The power was off this morning, soon our electrical bills will no longer be in the single digits, but it's only fair. A newish place constructed in what was basement, heated by the boiler on the other side of the wall, pipe noises our ears filter out by now. The electric meter had not been properly reading. D woke me in just enough time to make my tea and cereal, he'd been up for hours finishing his paper. Nothing by mouth for him. We set off early to let him complete writing, then print at the school, sans distracting workmen in loud, and presumably profane, Chinese out our door and window. I read a book about painting in the Netherlands between 1500-1600. I can always find interesting books in any library.

Early, per usual, after our long walk to the hospital. With laptop and heavy coats, I plopped into the waiting room, to wait, while the nurse took D away. Did the crossword and sudoku, read the local free paper, then the remnants of a NY Times, which proved more interesting and readable than I expected. A review of Into Great Silence - which I now want to see. The obit of Frank Snowden, who promoted the idea that anti-black bigotry was not a feature of antiquity. The abuses of Guest Worker programs and inadequate legislation. Even tried Will Shortz crossword, but took up D's research first, the Pia Casa in Venice during the sixteenth century. Overheard an elderly, and very pale woman, and her daughter, talk with a middle aged black woman about black hair care and styles. Heard every tiny sound from the restroom attached to the waiting room, which I decided to be amused by.

D appeared, sleepy, but no worse for wear, his esophageal stricture stretched for perhaps another couple of years yet. He ate the packaged pudding, amazed I'd remembered a spoon, as we waited for the cab. Home, made soup for my own lack of lunch, and we quietly settled, comfortable in each other, forgiven any useful activity the rest of the day.

Egg drop soup, leftover nan, leftover cake, the pressure gone, for today, for this evening. Tired, yes.

Fortunate beyond words.