April 25, 2011

Robins calling in the near-dark. Slept most of Easter day away. I wake feeling better, no distress in the stomach, but still exhausted. This is the way Paul describes his celiac, but I had thought mine was something less dire, something nameless and not worth a trip to the doctor. I did complain about it to the doctor once. She said, “Do you take antacids?
“Yes.”
“Do they work?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s your cure.”
It’s the sort of diagnosis that I believe and cherish.

For three years now I have kept a photo of Ginger’s son– Sean, is it?– on my desk, replacing it with the new one that comes with their card at Christmas. This one is a happy kid who’s just come out of the sea, his hair and t-shirt wet, holding on to a waffled plastic something, probably a float. The composition is actually rather glorious, with blue sky, darker blue sea, white shirt, and right down the center the family of reds, made of the float and his sunburnt face.