Peggy has completely recovered from COVID – her second bout according to her, but without an antibody test we’ll never know. She was certainly well enough to feed me and Paul roast chicken, spaghetti squash, the least bitter radicchio+tomato salad, and boiled new potatoes with butter, with homemade plum meringue tarts and storeboughten pumpkin pie and ice cream for desert.
A filk never got off the ground. We’re coming up on the anniversary of Tom’s death (a year goes by like nothin’, once again) and Peg’s house is a warren of piles due to trying to get Tom’s excess after death into the correct place and also due to the internal construction (just barely replaced the floor tiles upstairs to learn that every potable pipe in the house had to be replaced. MANY HOLES. HOLESINWALLS HOLESINCEILINGS holes… holes)
The dead wizard in the poem is Tom, of course. He’s been pressing for remembrance, so I’ve been having crying jags thinking about him. The ‘chromatically’ is a musician’s joke, to put colour on a word that is sound.
I was thinking in bed how if I died in my sleep that it would have been the last perfect day – weather good, peace at home, saw friends, peace in the family, got some writing and practicing in, ate yummy food. Don’t know how many days more like this I’ll get – statistically around 7000 – but yesterday was a good one and nobody has to be thankful but me. And I am. Undeservedly lucky and content.
