My Little Golden Book of Phobias

My child left yesterday and I am bereft. And there is a light rain, a pearly grey light. No one has yet rented the apartment and ownership of the house reverts to me on Wednesday (well, the bank owns the house and I make eeny payments every month until I expire), a subject my daughter was loathe to talk about.

Melancholy, in spite of the tomatoes which have exploded all over the garden. Little yellow ones that taste like candy and were seeded from last year's garden. Lots 'o green and little tomatoes but candified.

A crow and drops of rain hanging from the telephone wires outside my window. After I moved upstairs, I face the street now and can behave like a properly nutty cat-woman watching garbage cans rolling in the wind and neighbors moving about, yelling into cell phones and going off to work.

Off to the dentist this AM. My dentist owns a hobby farm on an island, raises sheep and sheep dogs and chickens. I buy eggs from my dentist, cruelty free eggs. Twice a year. And I get a new toothbrush. We always gossip and make my appointment run over. She knows more about me than my therapist. Perhaps if my therapist were a dentist...

I think I will take out the ancient lilac. It keeps shedding parts of itself. I'll plant a new young tree in it's place. We chopped the rose bush right down yesterday. Eden says it will recover. I hope so. It's ancient. And makes bright yellow roses. And it has wicked thorns, wicked and huge.

I forgot to scatter Yogi's ashes when Eden was here. He's still on the piano.

I just found out that my tax guy is actually a professional trumpeter. Now I trust him. He's an artist. I have no logical reason to trust him but I do. Because he played with Ray Charles.