It’s Saturday afternoon. I’m sitting upright in the stiff chair with my feet on the ottoman, watching the fire. Swirls had a good beach walk already and some chicken from the rotisserie bird I picked up at the market on the drive back. She’s curled up tight now in her too-small dog bed, calmed by the human voices chattering away, Andrew Bird singing from the chill mix, “And when you wake up, another sunrise. Another break up, the ship has capsized”, the clinking of forks on the stoneware plates.
My ex-husband Jim is talking to my spouse Janyce while he digs his fork into the defrosted cranberry tea cake. From what I can tell in my daydreamy state, it’s a long and winding tale about the origins of the Rumford fireplace and how its smart design throws radiant heat into a room. We drink our cups of chai tea and nod. Eventually he gets up and retreats to the back bedroom. Janyce starts to putter in the kitchen area, placing plates from the dishwasher back on shelves, silverware in drawers. I pick up my laptop and start typing away.
I’ve been reading Prophet Song, the 2023 winner of the Booker Prize, late at night, when I can’t sleep. I turn on the mini lamp near the bed and shine a cone of light downward onto the pages while Janyce and the dog sleep peacefully, barely moving. Last night I turned page after page in horror. That’s what this book portends and the grief starts to hover in the air like the mist from my tiny cactus bedside humidifier. Tendrils of smoke twirling around, a faint smell of mildew when I first switch it on. I can’t put the book down. But I do. Out of self preservation. The fictional tale tells the story “of a world unravelling,” as is written on the back book jacket.
A friend of mine mentioned to me the other day that she has been having this dream that she is standing on the train tracks, and that she can hear the train in the distance, but that she isn’t able to move. The upcoming election to her feels like a disaster in the making.
I heard on NPR yesterday, while I was driving home with the groceries that the FBI has warned that Chinese hackers are preparing to 'wreak havoc' on critical U.S. infrastructure.
And even Sesame Street’s Elmo wrote a tweet on the platform X asking how everyone was doing and the widespread answer wasn’t good. Collectively, we are not good.
I made the three of us an eggplant parmesan casserole last night and transported it in my packed Toyota with our dog and the trunk full of split wood. Because what else is there to do? It sits on the stove right now, waiting for me to preheat the oven, for the wan and watery light outside to fade to dark in a matter of hours. The four of us will settle in to watch a movie with the candles lit, on yet another grey Chatham winter weekend.
“We need more wood,” I say to Janyce as I grab the last log from the pile on the brick hearth and place it criss-crossed on the others smoldering on the coals.
Gatekeeper, seasons wait for your nod, mm-mm
Gatekeeper, you held your breath
Made the winter go on and on
Gatekeeper, gatekeeper, gatekeeper
Seasons wait for your nod
“This really is the soundtrack to this house,” says Janyce. “You know that right?”
“Send it to me, I want to link it in my blog,” I say.
She grabs her own laptop and joins Swirly who has since moved to the couch. I decide to get up to see what Jim is doing. He has the door to his room cracked open about an inch. I poke my head in to see him lying on his back on the bed looking at his phone.
“You’re missing the fire,” I say.
“I’m just chillin’.”
“You’re chillin’?” I say.
“Chillin’ like a villian,” he says.
I hope Sunday was sunny for you! Next time I’m back home let’s get together for lunch or dinner.