Wow, was I ever hit by a bug. This is the first time I have been sick since Bob died...well over four years. My son had a virus and I picked it up. It started as a sore throat and has now moved into my chest. Yesterday I went to the doctor for some medication. First off, she told me that my blood pressure was too high. Then she gave me a short course of antibiotics and some cough syrup. Last night I was really scared. My trachea was so itchy I wondered if I was having some kind of allergic reaction. I took a couple of Benadryl just in case and slept sitting up. This morning I had lost my voice from all of the coughing. I called my neighbor and asked her if she would go to the pharmacy and get something else my doctor had recommended to break up the cough.

She got that and it began to work immediately. She also left some soup with it, so hopefully I am on the mend. I am pondering the imponderables, as usual. Wondering what else I need to know besides the fact that I am? That is the short course taught by the universe. Just look in, look up and......look out!

Until next time...when hopefully I will have gotten my voice back....

A Bonus Piece

Life is neither linear or static; it is evanescently eternal. So much for book knowledge about who and what we are. As I find myself recuperating from a dreadful little virus, I sit at the kitchen table and sip some warm milk laced with honey. I find myself saying to the space where Bob used to sit, “I’m sorry I wasn’t always sympathetic when you were ill.” Suddenly I am alive with compassion for the no-longer-living. Is that a waste of time; I don’t think so.

Each life is art contemplated in fragments from something cut from compassion (if we are lucky). I have draped myself in my grubby little neck warmer and am waiting for bedtime. So what if I contemplate infinity while appearing both mortal and more than a little miserable. Maybe someone in deep space nine is missing me tonight. I don’t know; I just made that up. Writers can take liberty with words.

Bob and I had a pretty good marriage. It had a run of almost thirty-eight years. Many of those years were concerned with death and dying. Had I known, I probably would not have married him, but then again, we haven’t any free will. So what is must be.

I have been plodding along the spiritual path for millennia more than likely. Little progress has been made unless you can count perseverance. I have loads of that. I know what it is like to shoulder the burden of the cross only because you are choiceless. It must be done. Let’s get on with it. This is not morbidity but design. And He who writes the script also writes the score and provides the wardrobe. My neck wrap is part of the plan. And so is my sturdy blue bathrobe and my solitary life. I would trade it all for Cloud Nine, but it’s probably already taken.