The cat . . . . is on the bathroom mat. Head to paws. Sleeping. Blending in, gray on gray. Feeling my eyes on her, she sits up and returns my gaze, sphinx-like. Her eyes start to shut again as I turn my face back to my MacBook.
All is mostly forgiven.
Both my husband and my mother seem to think that this means I can't have any liquids close to the computer anymore. No more coffee. No more pints of water. No finishing my dinner wine as I get back into who is this guy, Habermas, anyway?! I find this ridiculous. That's like saying I can't go outside anymore because a tree branch might fall on me and kill me. Or a truck run me over. Or a hoodlum hold me up and shoot me over my cellphone.
Actual headline in today's paper - front page, people:
"Man found guilty in cell phone killing"
They're killing cell phones?! What are we coming to. . . .
Eighteen days left. Gird myself up. Don't let go. Keep on going. All the lovely pith-isms and go-get-em's and you-can-do-it's. . . . No. Not enough to sustain me. But hopefully enough to keep me going. One more moment. Then another. And I do have that which sustains: the sense of calling, I guess, that this is an assignment I was given and having been given it, I will also be given the means by which to finish it. Yeah - it looks pretty cheesey on paper. It won't look good unless I walk it out in actual life. . . .
Still, the diminishing number is a good thing. It means the day of my deliverance is coming closer! One way, or another. Oh - yay!!!!
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