I’ve been in this house for over 17 years, far longer than I’ve lived anywhere.
As happens most weekdays, my child bride headed off last night to one of the two gyms she patronizes. Last evening, she was at the closer, more elegant, one only about two miles down the road, leaving me home alone like MacCaulay Culkin.
When she left I went outside and watered yard plants with a hose, the first time this season. Then I came inside and sat on the scarlet sofa with my Kindle. I’m currently plowing through a strange book titled Vagabonding Down the Andes by an oddball named Harry Alverson Franck who in the first decade of the 1900s walked from Panama through Colombia, Ecuador, Peru and, well, I don’t know how far because I’m only about halfway through the 1,000-plus-page book. The guy must have been nuts, but he writes interestingly.
Did you know llama is a word from the original Inca tongue, and it means simply “domesticated animal”? Before the Spaniards arrived, the llama was the only domesticated animal in the Inca world, so that’s what they called the beast.
There was still some daylight as I started reading, but night fell, as they say, and I did not turn on the living room light because the Kindle has its own light. It got darker and darker. I looked toward the kitchen where a light was lit in the stove hood. The only other light was what passed through glass bricks that abut the stairwell.
I wonder how many more nights await me. It’s an issue as you age.