AUTUMN ONE – A NARRATIVE
A weak white sun filters through the sea mist swirling around the tips of the fir, pine, spruce, and hemlock that grow on this continent’s edge. I have the heat on, just to warm the place. Memories of days too hot to move slipping away, though they were only a few weeks past.
I hear the scrabble of claws on the sofa arm. A cat, Clarence, hefts himself up over the edge to train his curious gaze on me. He lingers there, resisting my pets but also loving them—his purrs give him away every time. Jumping down when enough was had, he races in his three-legged gate to the loveseat where he settles into his heated bed for a wash. Long tongue across long tail fur, he pauses to give me a love blink before settling down for a nap.
There are two more cats, already fast at their midday sleep. Melinko by the window where he can keep an eye out for birds, and Tyler on my bed going for a more profound slumber. Tyler is twenty-one and sleeps a lot. Sometimes I tease the black tip of his tail or the M on his forehead to see how much it will take before he wakes, but mostly I leave him be. I watch him, the little twitches, the squeezing of the eyes, the absolute inertia of the resting feline form. So beautiful, so loved. I will not dare think of a time when he is gone.
The cats are sleeping, but what of me, alone and unmotivated? In the past I would have walked to the beach or into town, but now my health no longer permits such carefree ease. I cannot even allow myself to work too much, to think or read or watch too much TV, because all those activities we consider mindless do require mental power. If I want to have any energy left for other things, I need to pace myself. Such is the heartbreak of Long COVID.
This recommended quietude does give me time to perceive, to gather in my surroundings, the feel, smell, taste, sounds, and sights around me. At this moment they are:
The feel of my body pressed onto the sofa, and the nagging tiny pains that never go away anymore.
The smell of fresh air and this morning’s omelet.
The sound of the ocean, that old noisy fridge, and a truck on the highway. I pause to imagine where the truck is going. North to the little town of Ocean Park or south back to Long Beach? Those are the two choices.
But on to my mindful inventory. The sights I’ve already described—cats, mist, trees. A breeze tickles the huckleberry, its branches now heavy with blue fruit. If I had more momentum, I would go pick them. From our cluster of bushes, I might come up with a scant cup.
Maybe I will do that later. I will put it on the list. But for now, I think I will follow the wisdom of the cats and settle down for a nap.
