Though you might be excused for thinking so - all these posts coming one right after the other - full of empty and high-volume chatter.
But the Grandmothers-of-the-Mind don't think there's any call a-tall for worrying. In fact, were an errant thought so much as to slouch over a bowl of juicy grapes, were to even think of thinking - while biting down on the bubble of juice that a ripe grape is - about how much one would wish for this very grape were one in, say, prison camp -
YOU KNOW - that far-fetched, futuristic, not entirely impossible captivity we keep imagining for ourselves - scheduling it in right after the world twists nihilistic - that world we travel to by handbasket. That place. Built on the sly. Built from the foamy shapelessness of avoiding the clear-and-present we do not care to name. That -
the Grandmothers tut-tut and bustle over, wiping the thought's face and bidding the thought to sit up straight, "That's ridiculous, dear. And you know it. Stop making up scary stories. Here you are on a sunny hillside. And you have a nice big bowl of grapes. And your children run by in their strong and healthy bodies. And there's your dependable Fritz driving up the road right now. Everything's so NICE. Aren't you lucky?"
Though luck calls up the idea of un-luck, which the Grandmothers disapprove of.
That Fritz goes in next Tuesday for the biopsy, the Grandmothers cluck, can have no connection a-tall a-tall with the tumors that riddle Fritz's father's body, nor the ghastliness of that first week of radiation. "Why, it'll be an opportunity to have lunch together afterward. And won't that be NICE?"
But if you pray, please do pray for my beloved.
(Also accepting loving thoughts and warm hopes and all forms of positive energy.)