August 20, 2014

The cyclamen I planted in February bloom. The pink turtlehead, one a transplant from 62, one new-bought, bloom. The sky is a Chinese blue plate, without a mark on it. I had not realized I have only one class Wednesdays, late in the afternoon. I wallow in the unexpected time, write, water, nap, write. I worry about the exhaustion at the end of the day. If I could just get to the gym, it might be better.

Suddenly heard my mother’s voice from the deeps of time.

Me: “I need shoes for gym.”

Her: “Why can’t Jim get his own shoes?”

Every time, year after year. I would have missed it. I miss it now.

Thinking about it, Will has had his way in every aspect on the house exchange, delaying what I wanted to have timely, ignoring my messages until it was convenient for him to answer, having the site for a price a realtor would laugh at. The fact is, I don’t care. But I think sometimes that I should have cared about things I didn’t. Plus, the bother he is saving me IS something I would have cared about, so perhaps all things come out even.