March Sanity

I was pummeled by the flu and bought a new pair of shoes.

And M accepted the virus as her own and bought a new pair of pants. And one more and then capris, not quite pants, thus not included in the pants total. And three shirts and two blouses, not quite shirts, and at the last moment, removed the beautiful cardigan from the cart. I could say I changed her mind, though I only brought reminder the cardigan was a good idea.

The tracking noted it was coming from California and I wonder if my friend saw the truck. It would have been on the east bound side; she was in the west bound lanes. Moving. A good move. But she has gone so I won’t see my friend much anymore.

March is a time for migration. I hung one hummingbird feeder, and it brought the chickadees waiting for ants. The car keeps yellowing with seed. Everything moving with the winds hoping for a place in the sun.  

The curb gutter is full of worms. Hundreds. All dead in the sun.

And the whales are dead. Beached. Their choice. The experts measured. The interested took pictures. We didn’t go to the beach to see or smell their end.

The one pair of shoes replaced three. Less shoes are better. I have too many. And I don’t remember who taught me someone with less deserves my too much. No one taught me someone with less deserves something new.

The flu makes me ten. Grape juice and saltines. Monster movies and racecar magazines. Three pounds gone. I could rid another four, but the sickness gave way, so I’ll need a new plan.

The reading and the writing. The stillness grows my mind and midbody with similar expanse. I was a marathoner and now I am not. I need new nouns.

Vegetarian. It confuses people. And I’m glad.

March is a hard truth. Neither winter nor spring. And both. The coldest winds of the year. The hardest rains. The sickest week. With cherry blossoms at peak. Daffodils bursting in patterns random and planned. Tulip magnolias as bright as the sun.

I sat in the streaming light and brought the books into one place. Cross legged on the floor, stacking the keepers to my right, donations to my left. Books feel like friends, sometimes. And sometimes you say goodbye to friends.

And to long months. To seasons. To whales. And buy a new pair of shoes.

1. Title photo by Author.

© Copyright William Hazel, 2024