The Wrath of
Ralph
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Rule # 1: Never write when sick.
Rule # 2: Do whadevah ya gotta do.
It’s a virus, I’m sure. Caught it
from a hug from Josue, who thought he’d eaten bad mangoes. Four days ago. Mangoes
good. Virus bad. Hugs good. I’m not
going to live under a blister-pak.
I twist myself into knots in order
to avoid paying obeisance to the toilet god, Ralph. Fortunately, neither my
stomach nor my mind felt hunger that afternoon. I felt listless. I should have
seen the clues.
Next day, you couldn’t have forced
food past my lips. The very idea clenched my gut and enhanced my mental picture
of myself, on my knees, in the little chapel, paying my respects. Both mind and
spirit abandoned me. I wanted to die.
Day three, I ate bread, a little
melon. Energy low. Could see shadows of human on the horizon.
Day four, enough is enough. I felt
better. Ate breakfast. Ralph tapped me on the shoulder. Not now, I said. I need
to catch up on all the work I didn’t do the last three days, right?
Prepped pineapple and mangoes to eat
later. Washed dishes, dusted, swept, mopped. Collapsed. Ralph returned in fury.
No article from me this week. I’m
very sorry. I’m on a retreat. A rest. Seeking refuge in book and bed. Making
peace offerings to Ralph.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
August 9,
2018
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