A velvety poppy red sofa (a love seat to be exact) in a brightly lit open space living room. I squeeze myself in between Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa is on my right and Grandma on my left. She is closest to the end table dressed with odds and ends, and close enough for her to darn a rip, read the news, coupon clip or sip a small glass of water. I envision myself holding Grandpa’s hand. He is ill and I want to remember his touch. His large weathered soft hand in mine. A hand that built his home in Europe and cottage in Canada. A hand that tended to the soil, untangled necklaces, stitched small pouches and washed dishes. Nestled on the couch together we say very little and feel very much. We know this moment is precious and conversation may spoil the felt exchange. The quiet closeness comforts us. I am at peace here in this memory. I am at peace. I am loved.
My eyes remained closed while folded into my comforter on the third day. My will tries hard to push the symptoms away, but it quickly loses the fight. The second dose has done me in. Exhaustion and nausea invite sadness, dressed up as the satisfaction of giving yourself permission to feel. Depression dances in circles taunting me to a waltz or tango but I am only mesmerized by the music. I fade in and out of mindfulness as the music pulls me in. I conjure up just enough mental fortitude to recall a happy place:
A velvety poppy red sofa (a love seat to be exact) in a brightly lit open space living room. I’m squeezed in between Grandma and Grandpa.
The tune once played no longer pulls me in. I hear no invitation to tango or waltz. I envision a soft weathered hand in mine and whisper to myself, “The fourth day will be better.”