Imbolc Waxing Bridgit Moon
Reading the pages from Missing, making marks here and there with my pencil, amazed at the material that has come from me, from some part of me, a part I may not know well myself. A strange feeling, as if a new relation were to be discovered in a family, familiar, yes, but whose origins are unclear.
The night has fallen and the temperature has dropped to zero, an odd idea, it seems to me, a place between high and low, a balance point below which we know cold lurks, a point of no temperature, zero. Odd.
Kate worked tonight, as she did last Wednesday, seeing 19 patients. That’s her old pace, back before the pains began. If she did it night after night, it would debilitate her, but now she doesn’t return to work until the 14th.
Valentine’s Day is my birthday, as it has been for 63 years, soon to be 64. Inching toward the 65th, still one of those birthdays, a turning point, a bridge. One more year to go.
