A large, double-paned window offers a view into the carport. At its opposite end is a door into the laundry room. To the left of
that door is the one into the living room. Three small bedrooms, one bath, for a total of about 1,100 square feet. The houses on either side are maybe 12 feet away. It was perfectly adequate for the "working years."
Nowadays, I usually step out into several thousands of acres and totter over to a hole I dug sometime before. If there's a breeze, I'll orient myself to take advantage. This morning, I flip the switch for the light and the fan and reach down to rotate the heater's timer. It's a leisurely activity and I've brought coffee and a book. I remind myself to buy another pair of reading glasses to leave on the edge of the sink. I contemplate the posture and wonder how soon my hips and knees'll start to grow stiff.
The fan sounds like a jet at idle.
The stench wafts past Mr. Nose on its way to be "ex-hausted."
The heat is a pleasant assuagement for the other details.
But then there's the mirror when I move to leave. How'd I get so
old?! And PHAT!
It's wonderful to lie next to her, caressing her face and arm, but it's been 15 years since it's gone any further.
She's
able to drive if she needs to, but she thinks it's the driving, from cat-sit to cat-sit, for ten years now, that's the primary cause. The sciatica is so painful she wants to avoid doing any until she can be seen by the specialists, next month, and get some professional advice. I'm here to chauffeur while her brother takes another international jaunt, this time to Egypt.
He'll be back in two weeks; he likes the "overview" tours and has been to many places around the world. We avoid crossing paths. He's available to resume the driving when Phoebe's ready (she's getting a whole new drivetrain), but he's no good for lying next to or reading bedtime stories. And he hasn't the
least idea of how to do nothing...something
Michelle and I are both highly adept at. But it's odd how doing nothing
out there takes on the dimension of
nothing to do in Albuquerque. (As a geographer, I'm qualified to say: Albuquerque has more Walmarts per capita than any other city in the nation; it exemplifies the "culture.")
Last night (I was away a mere month this time) we got out found objects and tubes of paint (
she did serigraphs back in the day) which, apparently, doesn't go bad, and started a project. I drank rum to fend off the barking dogs, sirens, roar of the >1,000,000 refrigerators within the metro area.
Commitment has the echo of quid pro quo. There's none of that here; it's love, pure love.
But outside's a wasteland; a hell.