This month is easing out the door. I've had no voice for the last few days due to one of those colds that hang out at mortuaries.
Easy to see how one could just deteriorate after a couple of weeks of hacking and sneezing. No strength, hard to breathe, no appetite ...for anything... So this is how it ends?
Still, things get done, Spring hovers then drifts away and dissolves into the promise to finish those blossoms now tugging on stems and branches all over town.
Next month will be better.
Next month will bring baseball and a fishing license, and perhaps a car was that will last for a week.
For now it's another variation on chicken soup, convulsive nights, drag your ass to here and there mornings and afternoon naps.
I'm not sure this is just a bad cold. Everything is so ovr the top anymore, can't even slip out of a cold in a couple of days anymore.
I'm sitting there in a hospital gown, waiting for my doctor to complete my yearly physical. This is when I look at everything on the walls, read the medical posters, the instructions on any equipment in the room, look in every corner and behind every chair. I study the paper on the examination table, laugh out loud at the picture of a smiling child holding a bouquet of broccoli, and the note the placement of the computer in the room. Finally, wondering if the gown I'm wearing is on correctly, I focus on myself. At this point in my life I'm fairly comfortable in a doctor's office. But it always seems to take so long when waiting for the doc to enter. So I fidget. Then I begin a tour of myself. Scars are tattoos. I look at the one on my knee and see myself at 12. Whittling a piece of wood with my Boy Scout jack knife. The blade slips and I cut a crescent slash through my jeans and into my flesh for life. 50 years later ...
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