Solstice, Part Three

(This is Part Three of a series.  Part One is here.  Part Two is here.)

Diary of a Small Contractor: A House of Many Stories

Thursday, November 13, 1986
Daylight: 10 hours, 12 minutes
 
Fortunately I have health insurance through my wife's job.  My arm is in a sling.  I ice the shoulder constantly.

I tell Peter I've got a bug and need a few days at home.  For some reason I don't tell him that I injured myself alone in his house.  Maybe I'm embarrassed.  One-handed drilling with a 3/4 inch bit was idiotic.

My daughter, age 8, wants quail eggs and pomegranates packed in her lunch bag.  Her best friend gets them, along with roast beef sandwiches.  I explain to my daughter that we can't afford roast beef, much less quail eggs.  Pomegranates, maybe.

"Daddy, why can't we afford them?"

"Because I'm not working and we don't have enough money."

"When we have enough money, can I have quail eggs?"

"Yes.  Absolutely.  What did you do in school today?"

"I made up a poem."  She's seen me write poetry.  Now she shows me a scrawl that looks like Chaucerian English:

me hed aeks.
my stomik aeks.
my thort aeks just the same…

At her school, they emphasize creativity, not spelling.  In modern English, her poem goes:

My head aches.
My stomach aches.
My throat aches just the same.

I feel like I will yell.
My mom tries to make me well.

My head stops hurting.
My throat stops hurting
but my stomach hurts more than ever
and whoops!
I throw up.

"So you're sick?" I ask.

"No.  This was a long time ago."

It seems like a weird subject for a poem.  Is she sending me some kind of a message?  So I ask, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Daddy," she explains as if I'm an ignorant rube, "it's what I remember.  It's a story."

My shoulder, alas, could be another weird poem.  The pain is deep, and mine alone.

Though only two days have passed since the accident, I suspect the ache will linger in some form for the rest of my life.  And how long is a life?  Perhaps 160 solstices, start to finish. 

I don't think my life would qualify as a weird epic saga — or theatrical tragedy — but it might be an operetta.  That would be 160 operatic acts.  On this day in 1986 we are in Act 79 — and let's play it as a wince-inducing comedy, with pratfalls.  Which, I now realize, is the spirit of what my daughter wrote.  Instinctively she knows it's better to laugh at your fate.

and whoops!
I crack my shoulder.

I make up my mind: I will never tell Judy or Peter what happened.  We each dwell in a house of many stories.  This one they shouldn't hear.  Already the noise of their home is an attempt to drown ghosts of the past.  Why add another?  My injury wasn't their fault.  Nor should it be their burden.



(Continued here...)