Good lord, it’s early. Back to the grindstone…? Should I call it that? I’m not the one who’s grinding anything, I’m just along for the ride. I don’t know which ride this is, or where it’s going.
The sun is up, still low on the horizon, very low, but rising. Every damn thing out there looks green. Is green. The trees are totally getting it on, and I have work to do. There is the stove (oven, actually) problem to deal with, there is a spring cleanup outside to be organized. There is a basement full of stuff that needs sorting, and which needs cleaning. There are gutters that need repairing, and then there’s the deck. This is just the stuff that comes to mind. My mind, mushy and so foggy, barely awake. Not awake at all, really.
Everything is so green outside, and shining at this early morning hour. As if each leaf were illumined from the inside. I can barely hold and guide my pen – this is ridiculous, I should be sleeping.
The strangest thing happened yesterday late afternoon. I went to the bathroom, and when I pulled my jeans back up – something I had done at least half a dozen times or more since yesterday –I suddenly felt in the right-hand pocket the earrings I thought lost. I had looked through all the pockets of everything I had worn, twice, three times. I had held my jeans upside down and shaken them. But suddenly, after wearing them all day Saturday, going out for dinner, and wearing them again all day yesterday, there they inexplicably were. Had they shrunk in size to a minuscule dust mote or turned into a piece of soft pocket lint, and then suddenly regrown to their actual size and mineral hardness? How could I not have felt them all those hours, and after all that frantic pocket checking and shaking out of clothes? My jeans are your typical, tight, reveal everything jeans. Women’s jeans also have notoriously mingy pockets. A tissue, if I bunch it up, makes an obvious bulge. How could these gold and diamond earrings, with their sharp, poke-y studs, remain undetected in my jeans for two days? I absolutely don’t get it. Wish I could write a story about the magic of a lost and found. There’s got to be a story in there.
Yellow school bus rumbles down E.-St., its roof visible to me through the thickening green of leaves. Spring vacation is over.