At the end of this long week I got home and was tired. I could have called it bedtime, except for dinner being in a half an hour. By “dinner” I mean making Babu her dinner, and then all the steps to take care of her until she goes to bed around 11. Husband is sick so I’m up to bat. But I’m tired. So I gather some things: my book of poems, my “daily pages,” a book, and my laptop and head down stairs. My plan is to lay in the first floor bed, read some, write some, and post some. Since I can’t sleep, I can at least rest.
My plans fell to pieces. I went down stairs and saw Babu was rising up from the couch, (Sure, she gets a nap!) so I peeked in on her. She saw me and her curiosity ignited. “What are you carrying?!” I showed her my poem book, my journal, and she was, again, alight, telling me: “I wrote in a diary, but it was smaller.” I asked her if she remembered that she allowed me to read her diaries. She said no but “Why not?” I talked to her about them, with trepidation. I wrote about why here.
So I kept it to history, The Great Depression, The Hindenburg, and close to the present. I told her about the blog again and showed it to her. I showed her this passage
and this passage.
I kept it safe and she was nothing but delighted. I admit at one point I wanted to brag to her. “I write quite a bit, Babu.” What I wanted to say was that I write quite a bit about you. I’m obsessed with you and with writing about you.
I returned my laptop to the bedroom to charge, having kept our conversation short to avoid any down turns. It was quarter to five and I wondered if I should start dinner. I came back out to the kitchen and Babu was putting on her apron.
Well. I guess that answers my question.
Now dinner is packed away, she is again napping, and I’m energized.
This may seem unimportant, even boring, but these moments with her mean everything.