My siblings forget that I live in another time zone. They start their bantering texts at seven-thirty their time, before my alarm rings. When I remark on this intrusion, people admonish me, suggesting that I should turn off my phone or tolerate the startling blast into my dark home. But if I don’t leave my phone active, I would never know about an emergency. One of my siblings insists that I should be grateful to be contacted by anyone at all. She might be right.
The rain holds off until I get out of the house and on my way to town. When I first peek my nose outside to check on the weather, I see a glimmer of sunrise on the trees rising above my neighbor’s house. To the south, another glow kisses the roof of the marina slips. I stand and watch the rise of the amber light. The sky lightens while across its delicate expanse, a flock of sandhill cranes cuts their raucous way through the wispy clouds.
By night the wind shakes my house. For the hundredth time, I reflect on my desperate search for someone to get my generator running. I can only hope that my dilatory search lands me on a competent helper. The lights shine and the heater hums. In a few minutes, I will clean the day’s dishes and struggle through the papers on my desk. I’ve moved them around a hundred times. I’m hoping that today will be the lucky hundred and first attempt to harness the rubble.
My early entry into the conscious hours haunts me. I feel my eyelids flutter as I listen to a news program and scroll through social media. The month draws to a close. The rapidity with which this year slips away startles me. So swiftly go the days. The need to compile a list of tasks which I long to accomplish presses itself against my psyche. But in this moment, I listen to the wind and the rain, and the rattle of the trees against my window. With luck, I will see another dawn. If my siblings interrupt my sleep, I pledge to hold my tongue and let them fill my sleepy moments with their cheerful nonsense.
It’s the thirty-first day of the one-hundred and twenty-first month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
