Up close is the cat, who meowed until I scooped her onto my lap. Of course, there's my journal, my blues ceramic mug with a white moon. I feel myopic at the moment. I'm very contained in the study, lace curtains offer privacy without sacrificing the light, a poster of a redwood tree gives me more inspiration to create a more far-reaching vision. Maybe in the distance I see myself doing Reiki again, here at the house or renting a space at the acupuncture clinic up the street at the Palm center. Maybe I see myself driving to Eugene to visit Amber, passing Mount Shasta which rises from the mist. Sometimes I see my parents' death, or Chips', or mine, but I don't like to look for too long. I take off my glasses. I have been nearsighted most of my life, and enjoy the fuzzy, more gentle view of my particular bubble of the moment.
Poppy's purr is an everyday noise. She purrs at the drop of a hat, constantly, it doesn't matter if it's 3:00 in the morning, she hums to herself, soothing and comforting.
I hear the trash trucks, which in my mind I refer to as the wheezing of the dinosaurs, groans of metal and sighs of the compactors, a brief acceleration between houses.
Now there's the turning of the page, the particular click of this particular pen, different from my usual sharpie which glides silently across the page.
I hear Chips' tap tap tapping on the computer keyboard. There's no letters on it, which simply amazes me that he can touch type that well. A familiar staccato as he does whatever it is that he does on the computer, trading investments, making copious notes. In the distance, I hear a bird singing, probably in the Chinese Elm outside my window, as well as the neighbor's voice hoarse from calling his cat who, most likely, is hiding underneath my lilac bush.
We had another skunk last night do their due diligence outside on the deck. Not as bad as when the first time June got sprayed. Poor thing, she jumped in the bedroom window and instantly I knew. I put her in the hall and shut the door, it was probably 4:30 in the morning, thinking I'd deal with it later. After a few minutes I got up, took her downstairs, peruse the internet for solutions.
I was out of hydrogen peroxide which had worked well the last time combined with baking soda. Both the little corner store and Safeway would not open till 8:00 a.m. I made a concoction of white vinegar and baking soda, locked her in the bathroom and proceeded to start wiping her with a washcloth dipped into the red foot bath bucket again and again. I was amazed at how patient she was, I hope it felt like a big tongue licking her clean. She must be so affronted, with her kitty sensibilities.
At 8:00 in the morning, Chip went to the little store and scored a bottle of H2O2. Safeway has been out for weeks, because of the pandemic and people making their own hand sanitizer. It took almost a month for the lingering scent to finally disperse from her black and orange and white thick fur. Now she smells like my sweet cat again.
Back when I was living in Luxembourg, we got our first electric stove. "Is this hot?" I asked and put my full palm down on the burner. I must have been around 10 years old, I remember my mom just grabbing my arm and putting my hand under the cool kitchen tap water. The cold was as bad as the heat. There is a reason why now I prefer having a gas stove.
Now I struggle with hot flashes,four years to menopause. Not as bad as before, but still I turn the fan on 3, 4, 5 times a night, let the cool breeze evaporate the sweat from between my breasts, radiating off my thighs, caught in my armpits. Chip will come to bed later, put his freezing cold hands on the back of my neck, my shoulders and I get some relief. Both he and the cats want to snuggle, but I'm overwhelmed, I feel trapped like being in a too tight sleeping bag. I tried to fake myself to go back to sleep, but more often than not I just get up with the sound of the trash trucks, rationalizing I can always take a nap later, even though I rarely do.