Smoke Signals

Reader, I thought I'd better send up a few smoke signals in case you thought the fires had gone out in South-of-the-River.  No, we are still puffing along.  It's just that we've been living in the realm of The Bare Minimum this week as three-fifths of us have had a virus.  I am one of the -fifths.

One nice thing about having a chronic illness is you really have to listen to your body.  When I was healthy, I could power my way through most coughs, colds, and other such maladies.  Now, thanks to the cocktail of immunosuppressants that manages my arthritis symptoms, I have few defenses against the germ-of-the-week.  My body reacts to illness by refusing to do anything but sleep.

Well, I exaggerate a little. I did a few things other than sleep this week, but just a very few.  It's really very freeing to experience (again, for the, like, 50th time) the realization that it doesn't register with the Universe, not even one little bit, if I am Behind on Everything.  Ah, freedom!

Today, all -fifths were back in school and I managed to sit at my writing desk for a couple of hours and survey the scene.  I tried a few warm-ups and writing prompts to get the poem-making machine back into action.  I wouldn't call it serious drafting, but I showed up.  I also took a look at submissions.  I am not anywhere near my goal for the year.  So I paged through the poems that feel ready-ish and set aside five to send out.

Tonight all five-fifths of us will have our usual Friday night homemade pizza and Greek salad, and then head over to the high school for the boys' basketball game.  Even though we probably will not last past half-time, it will be like old times for me.  Even though I will not know any of the boys on the team, I will know every boy on the team: the smart, shy one who didn't grow into himself until sophomore year; the ladies man throwing out looks to the student section; the small but determined guard; the big guy in the middle who has been through more than he lets on; the guy at the end of the bench in a button-down and a knee brace, out for the season.  The coach; the coach's wife who fed the whole team a spaghetti dinner last night.  The smell of popcorn, the pep band, all the adolescent dramas unfolding, barely noticed by the non-adolescents.  The assistant principal standing at the door of the gym, looking serious.  It's not the 80s anymore, so I won't be wearing my blue eyeliner and my big bangs, but it will definitely feel like Friday night.

I guess there could be a basketball poem in my future.

Happy Friday to you, Reader.  I hope your Friday night feels like Friday night to you, too.