Last night it snowed in Athens, Georgia for approximately fifteen minutes. I know because I went outside and stood under the flurry. The freezing temperatures rose slightly, bringing a rain that washed away the light blanket of snow that had dusted the forest white.
Eleanor is sick. She has been nauseated and vomiting all morning. We called the doctor, but the doctor’s office is too busy and understaffed to give us advice. I went online and looked for guidance. Pop-up ads advertising low fares to Puerto Rico infested my laptop and my mind.
Stella is outside on a sleeping bag. The day is overcast and grey. Rufus Wainright is on the hi-fi. Mulling spices. Ella is asleep too, on Janelle’s lap. The landlord keeps calling, leaving cryptic messages. “Please return this call when you can.” He wants us to leave. (Is he selling this house at last?)
Not knowing where we are headed, now in a fatherly way, and not being placated by imagined, projected specialness of being a broke artist, I tend to see more clearly than ever before the delicate threads that hold things in place. Even a filthy gas station has a role in God’s creation. I don’t want to hurt or worry.
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