This is a delightful time of year. The days are warm, even hot, and the nights are cool. It is almost its own season, the last hurrah of summer. In the early mornings the air has a chill leftover from the night before, but then the sun rises and warms the day, summer reappears.

I am a noisy person when I’m in pain. I walk, sort of walk, down the hall to the kitchen and moan with each step. Henry stays out of the way. Nala follows me closely, stops when I stop then follows me again. She was so close behind me this morning she walked on the back end of my sandal.

I am late again today. I have been couch sitting and drifting off for the tiniest of naps, minutes of naps. I didn’t get coffee. The hall is an obstacle, but I’m going to take a bit of a break here and be brave. I am going to face the hall, to tackle the demon. Coffee is the best incentive.

Years ago I was riding on a bus from Melrose to Boston. The where isn’t really important to the story, but it does help me remember. An older woman boarded the bus with a couple of friends. She was talking non-stop. She chose a front seat, one which faces another front seat so she was riding sideways. Her friends faced her. Mind you, she never stopped talking. I watched her open her purse, a huge purse, pull out a pack of cigarettes and some matches. She got a cigarette and put it her mouth, backwards into her mouth. This still did not interfere with her monologue. She lit the cigarette. She started sputtering and spitting, using her tongue to spit out tiny pieces of tobacco onto herself and the floor. The filter was in her mouth. That was the only time she didn’t talk.

I used to smoke. In Ghana I smoked Embassy Cigarettes. On most street corners cigarettes and matches were sold. I bought them by the pack though you could buy one cigarette or a couple at a time. They only sold wooden matches which fell apart in the humidity when the top of the match crumbled into little red bits.

Henry used to come in the dog door, but then he stopped for no reason as far as I know; instead, he whacks the dog door and makes a little noise to let me know he wants in. He does this over and over until I can’t stand it any more so I dutifully get up and let him in. The dog has me trained; however, things have changed. Given my current mobility issue, I don’t get up to let him into the house. I wait him out. Yesterday and today he has come in on his own. I applaud and tell him what a good boy he is. The biscuit I give him doesn’t hurt either.

This entry was posted on August 26, 2025 at 1:40 pm and is filed under Musings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. Both comments and pings are currently closed.