The cold descends on the Delta as soon as the sun sets, while we’re still swatting mosquitoes. I hand the dishes of nosh across the railing to my neighbor. Then we take ourselves over to her house and walk out the redesign of her bed-sit area.
Back at home, I spend more time than I planned scrolling for innovative bed designs. I sense what might work in my neighbor’s home but I don’t have the physics knowledge to underwrite my plan. We’ll figure it out. Then I get caught in a hopeless tangle of attacks by a friend of one of my sisters who has apparently decided to convert me to Trumpism. I read her rambling paragraphs and then decide to ignore her tirade. That’s the beauty of the internet. I don’t even have to hit the mute button.
A pleasant tiredness settles over me. Morning will arrive before my body has rested, my daily fare. I still have a vivid recollection of the first doctor who conceded that I will have to get used to that. “It’s called ‘fatigue even at rest'”, he explained. “It’s a function of your post-encephalitic state.” Not my imagination, then. I felt a surge of relief. Having an explanation changed only my perspective. Somehow I found comfort knowing that I really, truly, am always tired.
I notice that the angels shifted position during my two-week absence. We might have had a little trembling, a rumble in the underpinnings of our park, the fault lines asserting themselves. Now the angels face the window. That seems fitting. I leave them and go downstairs, to wash dishes, put on pajamas, and crawl under the covers.
It’s the twenty-third day of the fifty-eighth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.