of August. I woke at 5:45 and it was still dark outside, dawn hiding beneath a thick cloud cover. I too hunkered under a thick cover of down, chilly. Forewarnings are all about, summer is blinking off, leaving without a kiss. No rain, just fog and clouds. Everyone on this block has improved their front yards this summer; as a renter, I made do with my small garden bed and tried to water during the short dry spell we had. I just moved here in March, and know that I probably should move again to a cheaper place, but I’ve settled in, all of my pictures on the walls, and I’m holding out. Certainly not now, what with winter coming.
Fortunately it appears I will have enough work to get by and not so much that it sickens me. I am returning as a per diem with Planned Parenthood, as soon as next week maybe, and I will start a once-weekly clinic day in a few weeks doing pain management. Not exactly end-of-life care. But everything is palliative to me, be it pain or contraception or anything else that positions me briefly in contact with another person seeking some succor and reassurance that all of this, too, is a part of living and dying.
What I worry about prodigiously is my writing. Will I be able to blog and post a poem every day when I’m working? Probably not. That saddens me. These last few months have been the most productive time since 1998 for in terms of writing. I can’t work and write as much or as well as I want to.
But I intend to try. Nothing now is more important to me. I don’t have a lot of time left, and a lot to say.