Now it is October, a transitional month. Some days are warm and sunny and I pull on capri pants and slide bare feet into Birks. Other days, I wear socks and slip into a long-sleeved sweater to keep away the chill.
There are still beets in the garden. Carrots too, but not many. I pull beets and cook them as the mood strikes, turning them into pots of borscht or tucking them into freezer bags for later.
Little by little, we tidy the backyard and put away outdoor furniture, dragging our feet as if to deny what’s coming before long.
The wind blows. Trees turn brilliant before dropping their leaves. I simmer pots of soup and tidy the pantry, feathering my nest for the dark and cozy months ahead.
Just now, I sit in the hospital lobby waiting for Gerry who is having his second cataract surgery. People bustle around—some walk with purpose, on a mission; others, uncertain, stop at the information desk to ask for directions.
An older gentleman is sitting at admitting talking to the woman behind the desk. He’s telling her about his son who is busy. “Work, work, work,” he says. A lot of older folks like to talk about their children when given an opportunity. They (we) don’t really understand what their children do for a living, but are proud of them nonetheless. It’s okay. Our parents, if we were fortunate enough to have them with us long enough, didn’t understand what we did either.
I’ve been feeling profound gratitude lately. Timely, since this weekend is Thanksgiving here in Canada, but it’s not tied to the holiday. Nor is it the thankfulness I try to cultivate for small and simple things in my everyday life. It’s deeper, somehow. Just an wholehearted appreciation for the life Gerry and I have together. It scares me a little bit, because we’re always a heartbeat away from a phone call or something that shatters the peace. Waiting for the other other shoe to drop, in a sense. I try not to entertain those thoughts, and focus on this season of gratitude instead.
Soon, I’ll get a phone call from a nurse letting me know that Gerry’s procedure is finished and he’s ready to go home. He’ll come through the doors leading from day surgery to the lobby with a patch on his eye, I’ll pay for parking, and we’ll walk across the parking lot to the car. We’ll stop to pick Molly up from doggy daycare on the way home.
We’ll arrive home to a sparkling house, thanks to cleaners who were there while we were out, and settle in at home for the rest of the day and evening. I’ll pick up latest my needle felting project or dive into a book. Molly will want to play—she’ll also be ready for a nap after the stress of having been at daycare with other dogs. I might order pizza for supper because who wants to cook after spending the better part of the day at the hospital? I’ll sit in silence for a time, and let thoughts go by like boats on still water, grateful in the moment.