getting better

I think about what would happen if I were to get better...how I would live without the human delicacy to which I am witness? -- Yoram Kaniuk, novelist/cancer patient


Such is the fear of getting over it, of returning to normal, of shaking off life as a plotless dream.


Except that this fear lacks foundation.  The normal is the ethereal.  Dead, gone, nothing to get over, a story ended, of substance no more.


Today I notice there is snow.  A foot, probably; more in drifts and more coming.  This week I'm entering my second month of the Fifth Annual Winter Breakdown, a mixture of exhaustion/cold symptoms/gut pains.  So, among other distractions, I didn't pay much attention to the forecast, although I made an effort to remove the snow shovel from the backyard shed, Rich's sanctum that I have not entered since his death.  Its stored objects held no interest:  shovels, paints, brushes, lawn mower.  


My effort fails.  Doors are frozen shut, I shrug, I can't budge what's solid.  I park the car at the foot of the driveway -- ah, I can be clever.  This way, I won't have to shovel out the car when it is buried. 


Except I forgot that the snow is probably too deep.  I can't get to the car, and the driveway can't be plowed because the car is blocking access.  But there is no where I must be.


I have food.  I have heat.  Snow melts.  Soon enough I will be on my way.


Candace