Fantasies of
Phenomena
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I was going
to write about the morning symphony, featuring “Variations on a Theme at
Sunrise” with Bell-ringing Bird on timpani. This music assured me that the huge
black cloud in the western sky was not a slow-moving tornado but a cloud of
smoke coming from the landfill, recently plagued by brush fires.
I was going
to write about “The Rule of Three,” a phenomenon in my family that mechanical
failings trundle down the line in triplicate, always. This past week my washing
machine broke down. My blender began emitting a stink similar to that black
cloud filling the sky. My sewing machine, a cheap piece of plastic garbage I
bought seven years ago, broke down. I signed its death warrant and destined its
useless hulk to the landfill to add to the black cloud stink.
I was going
to write about another family phenomenon, some would call karma, but I choose
to call instant psychic feedback. With malice aforethought, I killed a spider. I
know you find this difficult to believe.
That spider,
the size of a flattened tennis ball, had lived in my shower stall a week plus
days, sharing my morning ablutions, each of us warily eye-balling the other. I
got to speculating it might be a female and soon my house would be overrun with
cookie-cutter images of mama. What would you do?
I awoke
three days later with a spider bite on my inside arm, an inch above the crease
of my elbow. I watched the bite site expand, thicken, turn deeply red with a
white pustule in the center. To the best of my ability, I kept my hands off the
bite, slathered it in Bag Balm, and pretty much, took to my bed for three days.
I still have a red circle but it no longer itches, burns or hurts. Debt paid in
full.
Instead,
I’ll tell you about my morning surprise. I got shot.
Oftentimes
we don’t know what is coming until it comes. I’d been waiting eagerly for
vaccination news for two months and a week. I knew Mexico had a huge vaccine
shipment from Holland. But when would it be divvied out? Would our little
municipality get the goods?
Leo showed
up, pronto. “You can get your second vaccination today or I’ll get you a number
for later in the week.”
“Let’s go
now.” I grabbed a bottle of water, my paperwork and my green card. Off we went,
John and Carol right behind us.
Hordes of masked
neighbors and townsfolk gathered to be quickly sorted into lines, each of us
issued a number. Those who were unable to be vaccinated today, were given a
number for tomorrow or later in the week.
I don’t know
if it was the lack of advanced warning, the rush of getting ready, the
excitement, the anticipation, lack of breakfast or what, but by the time I
presented my documentation, I could barely sign my name, I was so shaky. Leo
kept saying to me, “Breathe.”
I quickly
advanced to the nurse with the needle, sat in the chair and realized my body was
one gigantic tight muscle. That would not do. I issued a quick order to my
body, “Let go.” Amazingly, it let go. My entire body became as water, all that
useless energy puddled at my feet. I got shot, and went to the back courtyard
area to wait out my required half hour and sip water.
Once I got
home, I stripped, scrubbed in the shower and threw my mask and clothing into
the laundry, a practice taught me by Michelle and Ana, who go out into the
community more often than me.
Residual
nervous energy eventually translated to elation. Yes, elation.
I had
reacted to the crowds of people like a sheltered child, taken to the State
Fair, overstimulated by strangers and colors and voices and rides and games and
other unusual activities, but without benefit of hot dogs, cotton candy, and
stomach-roiling rides.
I need to
get out more.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
April 29,
2021
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment