I’m supposed to be washing my clothes and packing some money, so why did I just find a soggy fifty in the washer? My brain is acting like the 1930s wiring in my house, going dim whenever I try to use it. As I dashed around the house I heard myself chant, “This is fun. This is fun. This is fun…” — trying to convince myself.
All day I’ve gotten work calls about things I thought I was done with. Had a wrap-up meeting with a certain Miz S, for whom I do a pile of work. When I told her I was going to Costa Rica as well as Guatemala she shouted, “You ho’!”
One thing that’s got me a wee bit anxious is not having heard from the person whose house I’ll be staying in. “A couple blocks from Maria’s house south of town” is all I know of her location. Also, I don’t know if Don Toí±o still plans to pick me up in Guatemala City to drive me back to… someplace.
My house is littered with little packing notes to myself, written on whatever I could find at the moment of inspiration.
Yesterday I talked to my 94-year-old friend Mamma Ginna in West Virginia. I told her I’d call her next month as soon as I get back. What followed was a conversation similar to only two others in my life: with Dad and Granddad, when they knew they were about to die. Among other things, she wished me and Molly a good life.
I know we have to let our 94-year-olds go, but I don’t want to, and on the eve of my departure my heart is all sore.
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