Tidy

 

March 18, 2026

Much activity before departure. Sound of the dishwasher on the floor below.

I’ve remarked before how my chronological age is a shock to me when I think of it. The way I feel inside my head is indistinguishable from the way I felt when I was 25. I have the same excitement, the same anticipation, the same naive faith in the goodwill of the universe, the same caution about risk,–not that I’m averse to it in the abstract, but because I fear delay or detour to “What I Am Meant by Destiny to Do.”  You’d think that Destiny’s manifest indifference to me would have pushed that thought out long ago. 

The ferns by the back door are slaughtered by the freeze. Have not looked elsewhere, fearing what I would see, unable to effect redress.

Congratulating myself on finishing off this and that in the refrigerator before I depart. “How tidy he was” the officials will say if I do not return.