Life gives you lemons and sometimes gives you babies. And it works out best if you don’t puzzle over it and just decide to be cool whatever happens.
Today was the day I ditched my patience with people who aren’t vaccinated. This includes strangers as well as people who’ve eaten many dinners at my table.
Last night, the battery died on my cochlear implant just as we were about to go to dinner at a noisy outdoor bar on the river. But I was cradled by family members who enunciated and gesticulated and protected me from the slings and arrows of not being able to hear.
My grandson handed me a pear that fell from a neighbor’s tree and claimed it was an apple. Part of me wanted to agree with him since last year their tree dropped apples in our yard but, indeed, it was a pear I held in my hand, green with shades of purple near the stem.
Swirl’s sister, Hallah, died yesterday, a day after their shared birthday. He seems the slightest bit melancholy although there is a chance he’s absorbing the sense of future loss that has enveloped us all day.