Thursday, April 30, 2020

“My Crickets: A Little Decameron #34”

My cricket is already, at 4:02 p.m., communicating with the world.
     Howard, unfortunately, is not, sleeping for the first time in years for about 2 hours with very ruddy cheeks. Worried about him.
     Checked his forehead, not fever that I could detect, but not totally coherent, accusing me of throwing away two small ramekins which I do not use for my crickets.
     This happens in stay-at-home families. Things that are clearly not true become reality.
     The crows, Heckle and Jeckle, came again to visit us, spending a few moments on our patio railing.
     The mourning doves have been basically quiet.
     Only one child in the pool. The Ukrainians came to visit the pool only for a few moments. It's been overcast in Los Angeles most of the day, but that is usual in May and June gloom—as we generally describe this season in the city.
     Howard did make his wonderful red potato salad, thank heaven. We have only to warm up the fish fillets, as bad as they might taste.
     Just looked into the mirror. My cheeks look shallow, not red in the least. Don't know which of us is more or less healthy.
     These questions are the issues that our pandemic brings up. But it is he who goes out to grab up our food, such as it is. How can anyone who cares not worry?
      I emptied some of the unnecessary leftovers in our refrigerator, something Howard normally does. I'm not criticizing him, just wondering, as our roles have suddenly shifted.
     The wind is up, and I mean this literally, not as a metaphor.

Los Angeles, April 30, 2020
Reprinted from Facebook (April 2020).

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