September 8. 2020

An experience can become a novel **

In March, I waited for the doctor to call for days. I told myself, if the phone
didn’t ring at 9 a.m. or 4 p.m., I could let myself stop worrying. Each morning 
would begin the same—me taking tentative swallows of coffee, meekly
scrambling my eggs—and late afternoons I’d pace the neighborhood,
my hands damp in my jacket pockets. The enchantment of the present tense
eluded me. My body felt barely containable. Any moment now, I kept thinking,
my life is going to change, but I would not let myself dare to imagine either version
of the answer. Instead, I bobbled in the waves of my waiting hours, taking small
sips of any available air, while beyond me, spring was taking over in blatant, hungry
gulps, as if it were the last good meal the earth would ever have, or as if it were the first. 

** I borrowed this line from the subject line of a spam text I received yesterday.