I wake before dawn, the moon hanging bright and low in a cold, clear sky. Its aspect alone, having recently been full, is cause for concern, seizures often nesting in the wake of the moon's apogee.
As Sundays go, the day is full, Michael’s morning crepes sweet as our happy boy. We head out to get provisions for a special dinner celebrating my 51st-and-a-half birthday, an excuse for Michael to sate my recent state of cake-on-the-brain. The Rosemont Market is open on Easter, a day we always forget, so we take a scenic drive south winding through pastures laden with mud and white slush. At the market a glut of cars chokes the road, several churches clinging to its route, so against a bitter wind we must walk our boy several blocks, remarking on how well he does. I wonder, with the moon and all, if it's just too good to be true.
With cause to celebrate and a fire in the stove, at home we crack open the beer and the bourbon early, putting a loud needle to Led Zepplin while Michael makes me a cake. It's proving to be a fine day, indeed.
By seven Calvin is in bed and our guests have arrived. I've caught a good buzz, which I don’t want to lose, and though it has been ages since I’ve been drunk—a feeling I don't adore—I pour myself another.
Over salmon and soba slathered in anchovy butter we toast the fact that the four of us are gathered around a table. We laugh and muse over the college and on writing, photography and the community of our dinky town in Maine. They sing me half of a happy birthday song before we dive into a candleless cake and, not long after we say our goodbyes, I'm happily falling asleep.
The moon low in the sky again, I hear Calvin shriek. I run to get the syringe of THC cannabis rescue oil, crawling in next to him to squirt it under his tongue and into the side of his cheeks. Within thirty seconds his convulsions stop and soon after he is asleep.
It’s day eleven and I can feel the moon, like a wave of stones, waning over my weary, worried, aching head.
As Sundays go, the day is full, Michael’s morning crepes sweet as our happy boy. We head out to get provisions for a special dinner celebrating my 51st-and-a-half birthday, an excuse for Michael to sate my recent state of cake-on-the-brain. The Rosemont Market is open on Easter, a day we always forget, so we take a scenic drive south winding through pastures laden with mud and white slush. At the market a glut of cars chokes the road, several churches clinging to its route, so against a bitter wind we must walk our boy several blocks, remarking on how well he does. I wonder, with the moon and all, if it's just too good to be true.
With cause to celebrate and a fire in the stove, at home we crack open the beer and the bourbon early, putting a loud needle to Led Zepplin while Michael makes me a cake. It's proving to be a fine day, indeed.
By seven Calvin is in bed and our guests have arrived. I've caught a good buzz, which I don’t want to lose, and though it has been ages since I’ve been drunk—a feeling I don't adore—I pour myself another.
Over salmon and soba slathered in anchovy butter we toast the fact that the four of us are gathered around a table. We laugh and muse over the college and on writing, photography and the community of our dinky town in Maine. They sing me half of a happy birthday song before we dive into a candleless cake and, not long after we say our goodbyes, I'm happily falling asleep.
The moon low in the sky again, I hear Calvin shriek. I run to get the syringe of THC cannabis rescue oil, crawling in next to him to squirt it under his tongue and into the side of his cheeks. Within thirty seconds his convulsions stop and soon after he is asleep.
It’s day eleven and I can feel the moon, like a wave of stones, waning over my weary, worried, aching head.
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| Photo by Michael Kolster |
We're late to the party, but happy 51st and 1/2! Isn't it glorious to have good friends?
ReplyDeleteyes carol, i just wish i didn't have to wake up to a seizure again. xo
DeleteUgh. I think, some days, that it's right and fitting to just wail and gnash one's teeth -- that having one good thing doesn't always have to have a bad thing follow it. Does that make sense? Instead of "it could be worse," why not "it could be better?" I wish that you could have fallen asleep and woken in the morning to a slight hangover -- no seizures and no rescues and just one fucking normal good time memory, uninterrupted.
ReplyDelete