“Every day I have less and less to say, or think, or do,” a friend from Canada writes.
Another friend sends a list of “Plague Season” quotes published in today’s New York Times:
“May I kiss the hand that wrote Ulysses?” a fan asks James Joyce. “No, it did lots of other things, too,” he replies.
And as I write this, yet another friend, a new friend, looks up at me and meows her own lament. Her name is Black, even though she’s grey (Black is the New Grey?). The Spanish family slated to adopt her this week has always wanted a cat named Black. They already have a dog named Blue.
To explain why this is an odd pet name combo is beyond my language skills.
It’s been exactly four weeks since Spain was locked up inside and I went for a walk that lasted more than 15 minutes. Unfortunately, The Last Walk was nothing to write home about. It was cold and rainy. Débora and I wanted to walk in the forest. Miguel led us into the town of Beluso. He bought toothpaste at the pharmacy. It was all over in an hour.
If only I’d known then what I know now. I would have told them to go on ahead, and stood beside the old castle up on top of the hill, breathing in the scent of the eucalyptus forest. Instead of drinking vermouth on ice and eating mushroom and leek risotto, I would have stayed out until darkness fell. Maybe I would have even slept there, in the roots of that giant magnolia beside the chapel.
But it’s hard to wax poetic while Black is meowing for attention. Now she plays with a ball of crumpled up paper. Now she eats her kitty litter.
Today, for another hour and 18 minutes, is Easter. How fitting that I just finished reading Resurrection. This was not my plan, just a sad coincidence. It has taken more than a month to read a single book. Not that I haven’t tried. How many hours have I spent on the couch or in bed, reading glasses on, book at the ready, and just stared into space?
I was just about to quote something profound from Resurrection, but, again, Black interrupts. I think she’s trying to tell me something. Maybe to pour myself another glass of wine and sign off?
Wise, Black. Wise.
P.S. Today I was informed my mother is not 80, as I mentioned in a previous post. She is only 78. Of course, my mother was too nice to correct me. Thank you, Aunt Mary (“Would you want people to say you’re 50?” she asked. A very good point).
Angela Long 