A: What day is it? It’s so confusing that day of smelling fire, miserable parents rushing with their children to see the magical cascades of broken inch-worm green, peony fuchsia, red, white, and blue—tiny fires cascading down—like the Christmas ornaments my mother made but in motion, a GIF, not a still image. The frightened very young children covering their small ears, wanting to go home to the safety of their stuffed animals and their fathers—who would act accordingly should there be an intruder in the house, a frantic bat in the living room.
Z: It is today. The page of the calendar, an invention to make it all manageable—give us a beginning, middle, and end.
A: Is this the beginning, middle, or end?
Z: All three. A sacred number. Like seven. The seven hawks. Four representing earth elements and the body. Three for the soul.
A: All three at the same time?
A: I can’t find my new watch—the one I just bought to replace the one I lost at the pulmonary wing of the hospital. The one all the kind people tried to find for me in the lobby and my path into the testing room.
Z: It is better for you not to have one. None of the bullet points on your daily TO-DO LIST will expire. Well, maybe one or two eventually.
A: Why does everything have to hurt so much?
Z: Your neck, your hands, the nerve pain in your legs?
A: Yes. I move so differently now. Have to give up all those pairs of shoes. The things I can no longer carry in my hands.
Z: Hurting teaches us.
Z: Your plants, trees [pointing up to the sky], your flowers that remind you of Ciocia Helen—they all lean and grow toward the sunlight.
A: I have learned so much lately.
Z: I know.
A: The planes are landing again over the field—those miracles of metal, steel, human designs of mammoth birds.
That makes me happy again.
Z: How you deserve to be.
A: Yes, Being. The House.
Z: Yes, singing. The Cottage.
A: Would you like some peach black iced tea that I brewed just yesterday—in my poetry garden with me? Can you sit a moment in the shade?
Z: Yes, that would make me very happy.