Watch

 

May 16, 2021

On March 13, 2020, when I entered my house after leaving Dublin, I took my watch off my wrist and laid it on the dresser. It stayed there until today, when I picked it up and wore it to church. I had no particular reason to know what time it was from that time to this. Church, some small gardening, some aiming of plays at theaters, then vodka and blood orange juice.

Scarcely a day has gone by when I have not given in my head the speech I did not give before the Provost, as she then was, concerning the grotesque miscarriage of justice and ruination of a hopeful institution that she and the other members of her dark matriarchy represented. I did not speak because, at that moment, I prized peace more than a laborious victory, and I knew I was going to retire within the year. That was a mistake. I should have gotten it out of my system. The confab of biddies should have at least known they were visible. Maybe I would have had I known a kind Tartarus would ensue, where I had to repeat a quarrel in my head that I was too weak or exhausted or prudent or– something– to essay at the proper moment. The news of Miss Jill’s exit exorcized this. I felt it come out of me, with a sigh of “well, that’s over.” The institution I labored for for nearly forty years is cleansed, and though there may be other pollutants, they are not mine to cleanse. A task was set before me, which I shrugged off. I accept the blame. I accepted the penalty. I think that is over. I do not wish my opponents failure in their new positions, for they will fail. That is the penalty for their side of it.