I look back over the mundane activities of the day with some satisfaction:
--sat with my father, as always on Sunday's, in Panera, talking of politics
--made potato salad for Memorial Day
--peeled the heads off of shrimp a friend brought me from the Gulf; froze the heads for stock and froze the shrimp for many uses
--cleared a lot of broken junk out of my car into a dumpster
--planted two lavender plants that have been sitting in store pots for weeks
--made quick dill pickles for the refrigerator
--pulled all of the lettuce that had bolted out of the garden
--watered the herbs that are struggling to grow in the drought that may already be upon us
--read In Style magazine with Mindy Kaling on the cover
--did not take a nap; instead loaded the dishwasher and went to the store to get things for a simple supper
--sat with my dog in a chair, playing a silly computer game
--prepared pork tenderloin for tomorrow's grilling
--took the slow road to the Fresh Market so that I could listen to Whiskeytown
--researched BBQ joints in Kentucky and Alabama
--put off Game Of Thrones to write this blogpost
All of these actions, like everything, have to do with time--tomorrow, next week, the summer ahead, now.
For the day began with the surprise news that a friend died yesterday while fishing, a friend only 63 years old, a good, spiritual man who had been spoken well of by another friend just last night. And in the light of that, a friend and I sat tonight in the kitchen, talking of daily activities, and the ways that children were sad but already moving on, the ways that plans in place were still plans that were expected to happen, and the ways that even the two of us found ourselves referencing our own petty actions--the temptation of a sandwich, the caring for a sick grandchild, our summer plans, the ways that the days ahead would be changed by death.
"There is nothing that we can do," I texted later, "except to try to make the bad day good. We have no other choice."