Late yesterday afternoon, I drove around the quarter-mile circle on which my tiny house sits, nestled among the dozen others here. I wanted to see the wild peacock that has established a temporary residence in our far meadow.
I watched him move with a heavy grace beneath the willow tree. He tarried long enough for a few clicks of my camera. At the last, he turned to face me before stepping beyond the reach of my lens, into the brush behind the back row of cabins. I sat for a few moments,wondering what lay behind his steady gaze.
Later, as I shook the last three Tylenol from the bottle, I remembered that I promised to have blood drawn in Lodi on Friday. I sat on my porch in the falling light and listened to the wind moving through the towering oaks. Next week, I whispered. My heart fluttered; I closed my eyes and let myself believe that I could feel each irregular beat.
This morning I took my breakfast on the same porch, in the same rocker, rich black coffee in a crystal mug and soft scrambled eggs. I zipped my Sacramento Delta hoodie against the nip of the morning air. Later in the day, I sat in the bow of an old glass boat while three of the tiny house dwellers threw a line to a sailboat stuck in a shallow channel. We towed it past the abandoned crane, while egrets spread their wings wide and skirted along the shoreline.
Night again descends on my tiny house. Outside, the birds have nearly fallen silent. I cannot see the moon, but she must be somewhere overhead. From the far end of the park, a brief shriek signals that the peacock still wanders in the meadow, keeping his solitary counsel under the wide soft branches of the weeping willow.
It’s the ninth day of the sixty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.