Bad timing

House of illness. The housemate goes back and forth from the clinic having tests for  heart problems and a mysterious shadow on one lung, tired and breathless. In a response that is bad timing combined with stress, I have  developed an upper respiratory tract infection along with nosebleeds. We take turns to wash dishes, make beds, sweep the floor,  make soups and  hot drinks of lemon, grated ginger and honey, shivering indoors as temperatures soar. The dogs act up, detecting a lack of authority and confidence in their human companions.

 

The daily watering of seed trays that was such a pleasure, tiny leaves unfurling, plants blooming overnight, has become drudgery. It has to be done, dripping water into  trays and  making  sure cardboard  egg boxes don’t dry out. There are dogs to be fed, a pot of chicken soup that must go on for supper.

 

My neighbour knocked his head on the gate and  cut his forehead open. I  rushed out to  check on him and  had a vehement nosebleed, we stood together  gushing blood and reassuring one another. A falcon lazily circling over the fields, squirrels jumping from branch to branch in a nearby pin oak.

 

How strange to go to bed in the middle of the day, to lie shivering under a duvet cover while turtle doves coo outside in the — I keep thinking kwartel tree, but that is the Afrikaans name for the tree besieged by kwartels or quail, the  name is locquat tree — and cicadas thrum away in the heat.

 

To stay in the moment and  be patient, not to let  my imagination run away with me, to  wait for renewed health, for test results, to see what  has to be done next, to see what tomorrow will bring. What else is there? The old fantasies of escape played out and given up. Now there is the  sun in hot glittering panels on the kitchen floor, the clock ticking in  quiet rooms, the felt knowledge of human frailty. Just this, the here and now.

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