There is some dream, some dream about…my garden. I keep walking, taking turns peering around corners,
and there’s more. More yard, more rose bushes. It’s both a marvelous
dream, like The Secret Garden! and an anxiety dream. There’s more. More work to do. I could have put the
cucumber plants here and actually had room. That bush needs pruning. And in a raised bed I never knew existed in a large annex to my yard that couldn’t possibly be there, the dirt is moving, writhing.
I am thinking: “It’s good. It’s the bees that dig their homes into the dirt of my garden and weather the winter, or it’s worms. Worms are good for the garden.”
I hear her walker. I am awake. She is entering the bathroom.
My heart skips a little with this thought: or is she exiting? Will she be wanting breakfast now and there is none. I look at the time. It’s seven in the morning and she eats breakfast at nine.
Alarm. I take a moment, listening, turning all of the alarms off. That arsenal did nothing to help me wake up compared to the low clicking and sliding sounds of Babu’s walker.
I hear her messing with the white plastic container that holds her teeth.
I’m up and heading to her.
“What time is it?”
Sunday, February 11th, 1940
Got very angry at Jake tonight cause he was late.
“7:00. You are up early.”
“Is it breakfast?”
Friday, February 16th, 1940
Am going backwards now trying to remember.
“Not yet Babu, you are up early. You can go lay down for a while longer.” The biggest problem here is I stood up and got out of bed and that intense morning pee is shouting my name.
“7:00 in the morning.”
“Oh, that’s early. I’ll go back to bed.”
“That sounds good!” I tell her and dance behind her as she makes a five point turn in her walker and heads for her bed.
I rush to the bathroom. I know I should take a minute more and clarify for her, bring her around to understanding. If I don’t, I’m likely to have her tapping back out asking me questions. But I had to pee and now I can’t flush the toilet. There is a problem but that’s a longer story. It’ll be told later.
I hurry back out and peak, she is in bed again and seemingly asleep. I head up stairs to make coffee. I hope she doesn’t get right back up again. Gotta keep her in her routine.
February, 1940, is blank on a few days. The 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th. Nothing like January, which began and has stayed completely void. Glitches. Time lost. And I want her, not the now her, the 1940 her, to apologize and explain. Despite my 80 years after feelings, the only explanation I get is this:
Sunday, February 18th, 1940
Now that I’ve started I can’t seem to get to write in here the night I should.
This is what she says to me when we are out of juice for breakfast: “Shame, shame.”