Lessons

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Butterfly block from the Red Quilt. 2008.

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Himself: “It’s bad shirt Friday.” I asked, “Does anyone else go to the troubles you do to get dressed on Friday’s?” “Nope,” he replied heading out in a Ralphie that’s sporting Kelly green and cadmium yellow medium stripes. Really bad. Herself: I need to work on my thinking tho I did very well in a crisis yesterday. Not only do I need remembering key lessons, I need remembering wallet lessons, and remembering driving lessons. Reading: A new mystery. Balance: Finding the quilt.

I drove G’s little student car yesterday. I never drive it.

Big things differ: I find myself reaching for the shift stick the first few moments even tho the Toyota is an automatic. Little things differ: power windows. Push one button, and one automatically goes all the way down. The locks are not only power locks, but the key action is backward from the truck’s locks.

I swam, worked on a little piece about the Red Quilt as well as a children's version, and was ready to go to the Poetry group on time. I even had my keys. We got to Marion’s in good time, read, enjoyed the next chapter in Kap's multi-year saga, and cheered a fantastic piece by JJ while talking about the final pages of M’s book. We ate, chatted a bit, then headed back out to our cars.

I couldn’t get the doors open. I put everything on the trunk and kept trying. Finally I remembered the button which let JJ in and gave me access to the back seat. I put everything on the back seat, came home, and only then remembered that my wallet was in my gym clothes.

Fading, I’m definitely fading.

It is almost three, and I begin to do dinner prep. But where’s the Red Quilt. On the back seat. I walked down to get it, and it wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere in the house, and it wasn’t anywhere in the Toyota.

I called Marion, but I know that she was either at the pharmacy or napping. Sensible woman. G arrived. My hero. Yes, he’d drive while we retraced my trip home from Marion’s house. We drove slowly looking under cars and watching for a rolled up ball of red fabric.

My eye caught every trace of red along our route. No Quilt.

We pulled up to Marion’s house, and as I was saying, “I parked right there. In front of the blue station wagon,” I spied the quilt. Someone had picked it up out of the street and put it on a rock in Marion’s front yard.

My eyes were leaking a bit as we searched. Once we found the quilt, I admit to my eye’s leaking quite a bit more on the way home. I gripped the quilt tightly to my chest too.