David and I eased awake, lazy in our sheets this morning after a night of thunder outside, and pretended time wasn’t going anywhere.
I shimmied into my new black, be-pearled shirt that arrived in the mail yesterday, a belated birthday gift.
The man in the yellow shirt behind the counter—the one who loves my predictability—greeted me smiling and told me I had arrived in time for the last spinach feta croissant of the morning.
My boss and I hunkered over diagrams at the round oak table in the Archives Search Room, adding, multiplying, and dividing shelf space, even though, by first training, she’s a painter and I’m a wordy type.
David and I went to see George at the hospital in Oak Ridge. He read one of my own poems aloud with his raspy, slow, lovely way of talking. We shared some Robert Frost and photographs before the nurse came in. Then, George proclaimed, “I’m disgustingly normal,” when the nurse said his temperature was 98.5.
We drove home along the Pellissippi Parkway. Air rushed out against my lips, making them buzz with the b in the word “beautiful,” as I sang along with the CD. Dusk approached, and clouds frothed between the ridges of the nearby mountains, visible at every rise in the road.