Given the leftover canes of more important men and being told to be grateful and being grateful. The waning moon on the western hill.
We take the calendar off the fridge and study it plotting the week, which is full in a complex way.
Putting up tomatoes: canned salsa, pizza sauce and pasta sauce, and frozen roasteds for soups, stews and casseroles.
The eighteenth century yawns, stretches, comes downstairs and joins me for coffee.
The neighbors ask for help carrying their new door upstairs, and though my days of heavy lifting are now mostly gone, I say yes.
Accepting a cane from a man rich enough to own many canes, who now and then gives one to the poor, high on his benevolence, deceived his gift is a form of justice and mercy.
John Prine's last record. Cutting down mostly-dead trees past the pasture, knowing the end of days is nigh, and drawing each breath in a rush of dazed gratefulness.
And water boils for tea, and coffee boils in the low pan, and we wake the girls for morning chores.
What is ordinary, what is lost to itself, and what is grace-filled because it has no word for grace.
Nor any language at all.
Hefting fifty pound bags of flour, setting them where Chrisoula says, the back stairwell a second pantry now. Repotting succulents.
She takes her glasses off, rubs her eyes, and later falls asleep with her feet in my lap. There is no channel anymore that soothes me the way she soothed me once against how rough and indifferent the world is.
Market capitalism has failed us. Her hair shot through with silver, exciting me as if moonlight were a guest and not a stranger.
The Light of God in which all things - including the Light of God - are seen.