Evidence of a new season, masked by cold recollections and icy memories, struggles to assert itself. Early morning brightness might reveal clues about what is to come, but grey, wet skies hide the sun. Yellow daffodils scream their stories as they try to avoid death by drowning. A short road trip in the dim light might tell me more. But it may have nothing more to say than, “Wait.” And so I will go, but will impatiently wait.
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Thunder and lightning, remnants of fierce windstorms that overturned trucks and damaged homes five hours west, visited during the night hours. I hear mourning doves expressing grief and regret—the aftermath of a chilling, brutal night for creatures who rely on the safety of tree limbs for protection against storms. My mood this morning was scarred by the shrieking howls of weather radio warnings in the wee hours. That mood remains, a dislocation of what might otherwise have been a peaceful sleep. No matter. The drive to the imaging clinic will alter my mood. I will be unable to sleep—or breathe—on the CT scan table, but afterward I will treat myself to a handful of drugs, the reward for growing old. But coffee and a late breakfast might renew my energy. Time will tell. It always does.
