Touching
It’s a moist morning. Fog. Low hanging clouds. We get a west wind later today. And our fire danger goes up. I was hoping for a wetter winter. But hope when it pertains to the weather is just that. Our bluebonnet crop looks prodigious, however, so whatever contributes to that, thanks. At least our spring will be cheerful even if slightly lacking in moisture.
My new year is starting out in a productive fashion. I feel like I’m getting things done. It’s a nice feeling. I’ve reorganized some of my kitchen drawers. Gathered up all the knives to keep the cutting utensils together. My collection of wine openers is in one place along with assorted other bottle openers. I’m trying to find a nice vessel to hold my spoons, whisks, and ladles. I think I’d like them out in the open for easier access.
All of this was previously the purview of my late wife. But now it’s on me. I have a feeling most of the disorganization I now face was directly related to her dementia as the mind that managed the kitchen lost its edge. It’s like that all over the house as I dig into drawers and cabinets. Odd things in odd places. Not really a sad business, however, more like an accommodation to the ghost in the house. Or spirit. The essence of the previous inhabitant. Comforting in its own way, as I go about the business of touching all those things she touched. A brush of the hand in passing.
John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver's Tale