One vase for pussy willows, and another for forsythia branches.
Sun streams in over the living-room-turned-infirmary, Lincoln Logs, board games, adventure books propped open and blankets, handkerchiefs, half-finished cups of tea. The boy agrees to a bath, if the water is hot enough, if he can use the eucalyptus suds, if, if, and all the requests are granted. I leave the half-emptied dishwasher, the sink full of dishes, the table a wreck of medicines. My first hour alone in days, and while I’m not truly alone, this is as close as I will get, this week.
I am on day seven of antibiotics, myself.
“Can I come out?” he shouts. I tell him to soak another five minutes. I just sat down. As close as I will get.
So, a quick note: I’ve been working to establish a writing routine, and jumping into a hundred fresh starts of writing. I’ve also been struggling and moping, adapting to the questions raised by freelancing, and I’ve been researching houses to buy or rent. I’ve secured a teaching job for the fall semester. I still need to dig out from the housekeeping neglect of the past two years, and I’m working at that bit by bit. I’m caring for the world’s most delightful two-year-old, two days a week, and she reminds me how good it is to live in the present tense, to shake off worry, to play when the weather is fine.
The five minutes has passed and soon the boy will emerge from the bath, breathing better I hope. I’ll check in with the doctor and I’m sure we will need to make an appointment, which will mean leaving the sunny house. I’ll finish unloading the dishwasher and with some luck we can both settle into some reading.
At least we have sun and pussy willows. The forsythia will bloom tomorrow, I’m guessing.
