Words On Vulnerability

Cabbage white butterfly at rest in the sunshine

Wednesday, April 1st:

No. Monday April 6th: Hand gel and soap at the level where my hands look like I stole them from a museum. Psoriasis flaring. Mr's income plummeted without much warning, with albatross levels of foreboding: and yet really we are fine. My wages will almost keep us, we have just enough, no one should need more. It is merely that the world is changing, is in a mushy chrysalis that may or may not be in dire peril but is certainly vulnerable. The most personal bit of this is Grace, in her end of life phase. The gradual way she has submitted to being in bed since her legs have not regained the strength of her spirit; like ripples diminish, she is letting go. They are kind to her in the nursing home. The food is good. It is still not as we wish. We can’t visit, we can’t hold her hand, stroke her head, feed her those pretty puddings. She sends love: she is love. We are lucky for that. Mr sends me a message that food is cooking, the fire pit prepped. There’s a hammock, a glass of red.
Later: I am lying in the hammock, fire-spit spattered, watching our moon push through dense greenery, watching it slip like the eye of a cosmic fish into a deepening blue. Stripes on the wind-break agitating. Cold fingers. Beautiful heart breaking things.

Close up of fire pit, red embers, fire pit made of an old wheel rim.


Poignant. Heartrending. Beautiful. And true.
Stay well, stay safe.

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