Overnight, a few people from my high school graduating class—people I only vaguely remember and who probably do not actually remember me—wished me happy birthday, thanks to a Facebook group administrator who kindly and dutifully posted a reminder. He posts birthday reminders for members of the class, as well as old obituaries on the anniversaries of those who have died. Lately, a few members of the group have posted questions and comments about whether a 52-year reunion of our graduating class should be held—reunions were held to celebrate the 10, 20, 30, and 40 year anniversaries, but not for 50. For various reasons, I have attended none of the reunions. And I have had almost no contact with my high school classmates since graduation. My so-called high school friendships were shallow and disappointing. Why I am even remotely curious to know the turns taken in the lives of fellow students since then is beyond my understanding.
When I started writing the first paragraph, darkness had begun slipping away, revealing spots and streaks of daylight where the sun had already begun to melt the night sky. In the time it has taken me to write this much, the horizon has brightened to a milky-beige. Higher in the sky, the color is closer to a very light, dull grey-blue, with grey decidedly predominant. I just returned to this paragraph to update my observations about the sky; it is now pale blue, the color of a robin’s egg.
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The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.
~ Pablo Picasso ~
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A few weeks ago, I saw photographs of several elaborate sand sculptures created as entries into a competition on the beach in Port Aransas, Texas. The images were stunning—intricately crafted figures created by exceptional artists. All of the sand sculptures are no doubt long gone now, washed away by high tides and waves. I would think the artists would be sad to see their creations dissolved into the water, but a comment by one of the artists that I recall reading suggested otherwise. To that artist—and probably others—the act of creating the sculpture was satisfaction enough. There was no need for the art to be preserved; having made it was sufficient for the creator. I admire that attitude.
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There is no kidding myself; I am a little nervous about today’s visit with the oncologist. Though I expect interpretations of the results to be mixed between slightly positive and slightly negative, my reading of the PET-scan report could be completely wrong. I should push those thoughts out of my head; I should know in less than two hours. There’s no point in worrying at this stage. That argument is as valid as the one insisting the condemned man should look on the bright side, as the guillotine blade slices through the air on its way to his throat.
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An orange-cranberry scone, accented by another cup of espresso, would please my taste buds at this moment. Unfortunately, it’s my understanding that the only place I know of that used to sell such delights, Starbucks, no longer offers them. My espresso is better than theirs, but I doubt I could replicate the texture and flavor of their orange-cranberry scones. I think the last time I had one of those delightful, joy-inspiring products was at a Starbucks in Dallas, where I stopped for a break when I took my long morning walks.
