Yesterday it rained, at times a heavy rain. Accompanying the rain was a cool breeze, a northern breeze. I shut the window behind me and put on a flannel top. The dogs stayed cozy on the couch, one on each side of me. They didn’t go out in the rain.

My coughing is less frequent than it has been but is still fierce at times. It sounds like a car motor which doesn’t turn over but comes close. My morning voice is raspy, a Robert F. Kennedy Jr. voice. It gets better during the day but is raspy again at night. I still limp, but the walker helps get me down the hall. Sitting is the best. I am getting better but slower than I want. I complain to the dogs but they don’t really care.

I seldom was sick enough to stay home from school, but, if I did, I had the luxury of staying in bed and reading. It made being sick worthwhile.

When I was a kid and got sick, my mother had remedies. She made tea and chicken soup. She sometimes gave us flat ginger ale, meant to settle stomachs, and unbuttered toast. I am not a hot tea drinker. I think it is because I associate hot tea with being sick. The flat ginger ale tasted horrible, but I had to drink it to wash down the dry toast.

My father was a Vicks man. It was his panacea. He even had a sweatshirt he wore every time he slathered his chest. I hated the smell. He also loved Bengay. He had a bad back and always asked for help, for someone to put it on his back. I’d do it for him. I actually liked the smell of Bengay.

My friend brought groceries yestetday including a chicken pot pie. She keeps track of me to make sure I’m okay. Another friend picked up my medication and dropped it off with a chocolate bar to brighten my day. My friend Elaine filled my fridge this morning with homemade goodies, stew and pasta. John came and got my trash. Friends write to me on Facebook asking if I need anything. My sisters call. My friend Peg calls. I have a village.

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.