Today I lay on my back in the sun and read.
I swung on a a swing with such delight that a 13-year-old girl swinging languidly next to me was moved to utter to her friends, with an air of great disdain, “That girl really likes swinging, yo. She’s enjoyin’ herself!”
I went to yoga and rocked the bow pose.
I had lunch with Ross on the grassy lawn of the main quadrangle of the university, the sun so bright and hot on our backs we began to be covered in a thin film of sweat. The year’s first sweat—it should be divine, so sweet we could bathe in it—but instead it feels almost like a punishment. Then you froze, now you shall burn. Bodies are so temperamental.
I put my ailing rosemary in a proper pot (why is rosemary always ailing? It’s as if it doesn’t think Chicago’s weather is as healthy as the weather in the Mediterranean, or something) and cleaned out last season’s roots and dead branches from two other pots; I saved as much soil as I could from those, to make a ready place for the nasturtiums I’m going to plant tomorrow and the tomatoes Megan is slowly coaxing from seed.
While repotting the rosemary, a piece of grit flew into my left eye, sharp as a needle, and I could not get it out for half an hour, flush as I might. Finally, I thought it might be better to let a professional maul my eye for me (and make sure I didn’t have a corneal abrasion), and as I sat in the office of the nearest optometrist, waiting to pay a hundred dollars for him to get the piece of dirt out for me, I blinked hard and out it came. I should have asked Ross to lick it out for me; that would have been a sign of true love.
While flushing and blinking and swearing at the tiny piece of dirt in my eye, my friendly UPS guy arrived bearing my new wedding ring, and undoubtedly thought I was in the midst of some horrible emotional crisis, red-eyed and teary and sniffly-nosed. But the ring is marvelous: wide and matte and slightly concave. It feels good to have it around my finger.
To celebrate the fact that gardening did not make me go blind, Ross and I picked up some of this at the store and mixed the first summer drinks of the year to imbibe on the back porch. I made them strong. Really strong. So strong I was willing to write to you here, though I swore not to.
Sun is life. Heat is life. I am here and alive and, if not well, then at least beautifully, deliciously warm.