Mr. Moon does almost all of his texting via voice-imput. Or whatever you call that. You speak the text and Siri (I'm sure it's Siri) types it for you. So he was doing that, giving our neighbor Paul instructions on feeding the chickens and the cat and he was trying to explain that every night he has to go into the pump house where Missy is and pick her up and take her to the hen house.
He went through this whole thing and sent it without reading it and well, here's how it came out.
As you can see, Paul is capable of handling anything. And I can't help it. I'm still laughing at the image of Paul carrying a small black man gently to the hen house. By hand.
Oh my. A good laugh is a beautiful thing.
So yes, Missy is still trying to hatch no eggs. Bless her heart.
I went to see Kathleen today and we had the best talk. We talk about everything. Husbands and relatives and chickens and ducks and books and getting born and dying. Yes. All of it. Hell, she's not shy and neither am I. I think she's worried she's not doing this hospice thing right. She's always been an overachiever, you know. Always. And a people-pleaser. She always will be. We can joke about it but we can be serious too. I keep telling her that she's doing everything just exactly right. And she is. And she is beautiful and smart and funny as hell and wise and so very kind and wicked, too, and she is my friend and she may be dying but she is not dying NOW and there is something so comforting and sweet about laying on her bed with her and just...chatting.
I keep saying, "I've got to go. I know I'm wearing you out," but then we start talking about something else and another half hour goes by.
I love her.
After our visit, when I finally pulled myself away I went to the grocery store and bought our food for the island. Sin food. Steaks and cheese and tortilla chips and beer. And lettuces and tomatoes and a red onion and hummus and corn meal and so it wasn't all bad. Just mostly.
Dog Island is a hell of a lot like Las Vegas- what happens there, stays there. Which is good and which is bad because we not only leave the bad eating behind, we also have to leave the sunsets, the tides, the ospreys' crying as they dive into the water for their supper, the sound of the wind as it sings across the dunes and through the pine trees, the leaping mullet, the ballet of dolphins, the sense of nothing-to-do, nowhere to be.
Well, I am looking forward to it and I know that Maurice and the chickens will be in good hands with Paul. Even Missy, a small black hen and not a small black man, who is sitting on imaginary eggs and who may eventually hatch out small imaginary peeps with imaginary fluff and imaginary cheeps, to gather under her very real wings.
We all create our own reality some say. This is certainly true for Missy.
Bless all our hearts.
Bless alla y'all.