anda bem

(written on june 1st, 2014) this song played as i wrote ...

the house is quiet except for the music of marisa monte in a corner room. i sit reading one of three novels in progress, "the history of love", on a low window bench which is really a bed for my dog heart. on this warm, almost summer day, she prefers the cool tile of our kitchen floor. heart is now 14 years old, and slowing down considerably. she suffers from arthritis and hip dysplasia. walking is difficult for her and at 70 lbs. when she decides she can't walk she just plops herself down. she comes upstairs less frequently and when she falls on the wooden floor i must resort to clever tricks to help her up. mostly i insert a small carpet under her body to give her the needed traction to lift herself off the floor... (kind of like trying to get car tires out of the mud). the other day we were walking in the neighborhood and heart decided she needed to rest so she laid down in the middle of the scarcely traveled dead end street around the corner from our house and there we sat for 10 minutes; heart, keeley and i, until a neighbor came with her car to take us home. keeley, my 9 lb. shnorkie, rests at my feet in front of the window bench. at 11 years of age she should have lots of life left in her but keeley suffers from congenital heart disease. she is tired all the time because her tiny body houses a greatly enlarged heart that works way too hard to keep her going. my husband cleans on sunday mornings so the house is not only quiet, but it is "smell-good" clean. nothing is out of place this morning except my thoughts. i just turned 62 and i think about these dogs. i wonder how long we have left together, which one will pass on first and how they would get along without me or how i will go on without them; the feel of their warm furry selves beside me. when heart gets on the window bench and i scratch her head, she puts it on my lap, giving in joyously to my affections. the weight of this jug sized head is secure, like winter blankets in a room without heat. it is sufficient. at night keeley gets up on the futon and sleeps beside me. the warmth of her there, trusting i will not roll over on her, is sufficient. how she looks into my eyes, in my lap, head resting on my shoulder as i work in my studio. it is sufficient. our children are gone. the last one left tennessee a few weeks ago. i see them once or twice a year and spend time with the grand kids. today the confluence of music, literature and poetry set my mind to wandering. without children at home and fearing the inevitable passing of heart and keeley, i sense denouement and sadness sweeps over me. i am in uncharted waters. i imagine, yet cannot, life without my dogs. i imagine, yet do not know, how many years i have left. i contemplate all i hope to accomplish, the books i want to read and places i dream of traveling, the activities i will eventually give up and the things i will gradually need assistance to do. i guess it is just as well we do not know how our stories end until the time is right. that way each day is a gift.
ainda bem, porque cada dia é um presente.