Didn't go to Wakulla Springs today. Storms. And all day I have thought about Owen and have missed him. That wild boy. That kamikaze hugger. That open-mouth smacker on the mouth.
I cooked soup and custard for Kathleen because she can't eat fake soft food and she doesn't feel like cooking the real stuff. She's so tired. I went to see her, take her the food, and she's just so tired. That's normal, I'd suppose, for a person undergoing radiation. The doctor didn't really warn her of that, though. He made it sound as if it would be some possible throat pain, a bit of skin burning, nothing big, nothing to fear.
Well, Kathleen doesn't fear much and it sure would be nice for her to know these other things might happen. Even with the chemo she's about to get he only keeps saying she's going to lose her hair and then he told her about the chemo class that was offered. She went. She got a folder with recipes. I have a feeling she's not going to be much interested in those either. Cooking or eating them. I'll surely cook them if she'll eat them but we'll just have to wait and see what's what. Who knows? After a lifetime of not eating meat she may suddenly want a ham. I doubt it, but I suppose it could happen. You better believe that if she wants a ham I'll bake one for her. With brown sugar and mustard sauce. Mr. Moon would go out and shoot her a wild pig if that's what she wanted. I know he would.
I shouldn't be writing tonight. I'm just tired and have some blahs. Babyless blahs. Feeling-like-I-ain't-good-for-nothing blahs. Feeling-like-I'm-really-old-and-everything-hurts blahs.
Not even blues, you understand. Just blahs. The moon's a tiny double-ended hook in the sky and my heart feels like maybe it got a little too close to one of those silver points. Just one tiny drop of blood, maybe. Nothing mortal, just a tiny, sticky red rose of a wound on my heart.
Well, it's time for bed anyway. Guess I'll go lay down and see where my dreams take me and where they drop me off tomorrow morning when I wake up. Mr. Moon's lunch is packed for tomorrow, the smoothie is set up to be blended in the morning. The coffee's set to go off at seven. The beans for tomorrow night's venison white bean chili are cooked. The guest room sheets are clean. Sweet Lis is coming tomorrow night and maybe we'll do another kissing picture. If we have martinis we probably will. And we probably will have martinis.
My heart will probably mend in the night and maybe my old bones will settle themselves into a more comfortable position within me. One can hope.
One can dream.