I roll over, annoyed that I am awake. The room is dark with only the faint glow of a street light filtering through the double curtains. Did that scrap of light wake me? Sleeping can be so hard. I swear, if a butterfly flew by my window, I’d wake up.
Should I check the time and rouse myself further, or should I pretend I never woke and try to go back to sleep? But what if it’s nearly dawn? That’s close enough to rise and shine to merit forsaking my comfy bed.
Curiosity wins the day, or night, as the case may be. I press the light on my watch, blinking as the bright, white glare accosts my eyes: 3:50 a.m. Groan. Too early to get up; too late to fall back to sleep. No man’s land.
Well, there is one benefit to this forlorn hour. It is the perfect time to turn off the air-conditioner and save a lempira or two. The room will keep cold for a few hours.
Once I hear the satisfying beep of the remote, followed by the low drone of the unit shutting down and the louvres closing up, I pull the comforter tight around me and attempt to do the impossible – return to a blissful slumber.
A soft, raspy, half-squeak, half-meow breaks the silence. Lily. I wasn’t the only one listening for that beep. The cats never meow until they hear signs of life. I often wonder how long they park themselves outside my bedroom door, ears perked, listening for a tell-tale sign they might soon be fed.
Domesticated house cats have it easy. They don’t worry about much other than food, sleep and play. World events and global crises pass them by. How one of this magnitude can leave any living creature unaffected, I don’t know.
9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Wednesday.
These are the hours I am allowed to venture out and frequent one of the Big Four: grocery stores, pharmacies, banks and gas stations. Oh wait, ferreterías, hardware stores, were just added to the list, so now it’s the Big Five. The government has restricted people to leaving the house to one day a week, according to the last digit on their identity card, passport or residency card. My passport ends in a six so I can shop on Wednesdays.
We are under a toque de queda absoluto, or absolute curfew, for yet another week. The original curfew didn’t have such severe restrictions, but COVID-19 cases still multiplied on the mainland. No country, rich or poor, can afford to have its citizenry get ill all at once. Even if only a small percentage needs medical care, no healthcare system has the excess capacity to handle the deluge. The government here is buying time to acquire ventilators, set up quarantine areas and develop a plan to handle the surge.
I flop on my back, trying to push current events under the mattress and out of my head. Ahh, thinking of mattresses, this one is a study in perfection. It gives my back just the right amount of support for a restful night’s sleep, if I only could sleep. I bought it from the manufacturer, Foam, in La Ceiba on the mainland, chuffed at how much cheaper it was than a typical U.S. brand.
When will I get back to La Ceiba? My list of supplies from the mainland is growing, and now my three-year old fridge is making a horrible racket. The Bay Islands, which my island of Utila is a part of, will be no doubt be quarantined from the rest of the world for a few more weeks. We have no cases of the coronavirus so why tempt fate when tourists, the islands’ economic engine, can’t travel?
Tourists are drawn here for sunny skies, tropical climes and the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef, 620 miles of beautiful snorkeling and diving, stretching from southeastern Mexico to Honduras. Regrettably, swimming, diving and all other outdoor recreational activities are forbidden under the toque de queda absoluto. Housework, however, is not. Thinking of which, the ceiling fan in the media room is beginning to look like Sasquatch. And those cursed coconut trees could use a trim. They are nothing but thirty-foot tall, leaf-shedding machines.
I’m beginning to break out into a sweat at the thought of toiling away in the heat and mosquito-infested realm of my garden, risking life and limb while perilously perched on a too-tall ladder, hacking away at a fifteen foot palm leaf.
Damm. It’s not working. I can’t even lie here in peace. Stupid mind is too active.
Hmm. Are the cats still there?
“Hello, Lily!”
A squawky, “Meow,” responds.
Yup, she is still planted outside my door. I continue, “Bruno, are you there?”
The thump of four paws landing on the floor reverberates behind my door, followed by the high-pitched meow of the castrati. This is not helping me get back to sleep, but it is entertaining.
I check my watch: 4:46 a.m. Close enough. Added bonus, I have oodles of time to fritter away.
Per my steadfast routine, I make my coffee, feed the cats, eat breakfast (homemade yogurt with fruit, oats and pre-soaked chia seeds) and spend the next hour or so leisurely reading the news and gossip. Since the opening bell of work no longer tolls, I can luxuriate in solving the daily New York Times crossword puzzle (albeit with a little bit of on-line help – I’m clueless when it comes to tidbits like who coached a football team), as well as completing a daily Sudoko and an on-line jigsaw puzzle. All supremely relaxing. The joys of retirement.
After nearly two hours of pure indulgence, I begin to feel guilty for my idleness.
As I stand up, I hear a “Ch, ch, ch” from my front porch. A hummingbird is flitting around my feeder.
I walk outside into the still, steamy air and watch the little fella dip his long beak into the base as he darts from “flower” to “flower.”
Another hummingbird swoops in, “Chrrrr, chrrrr,” taking over the feeder.
The first darts away, perching itself on the wire leading to my power meter, trilling, “Ch, ch, ch, ch,” in rapid succession.
A moment later, both take off, flying around each other, one chrrrr-chrrrring, the other ch-ch-ch-ching, before heading into the trees.
Having enjoyed what passes for entertainment these days, I decide it is high time to start the productive portion of my day.
But what day is it? I can’t remember. Having been in quarantine over a month, one day blurs into the next. Fortunately, my trusty, multi-purpose, Garmin dive-watch comes to my rescue. It is Sunday.
Oh.
I missed Sunday brunch. Pre curfew, a good friend of mine came round every Sunday morning for mimosas and breakfast, a tradition that flows with the rhythms of retirement and island living. However, since that is not possible now, I try to mark the day with something different like pancakes or French toast. Sigh. Next Sunday.
I trot through the house and gather up stray dish and bath towels to bung into the washer. Fortunately, most are already collected in a lime-green bin in the laundry room. A light film of sweat begins to envelop my flush skin. Groan, it’s going to be another blistering hot, sunny day.
Distracted by the thought of impending heat-ageddon, I almost forget to add disinfectant into the bleach repository. I figure if a germicidal, household tonic works for wetsuits, it should work for laundry. I have to compensate somehow for the lack of hot water. Did you know there are washing machines with no hot water inlets? I had no clue a cold-water-only washer existed until I tried to connect the hot water line to mine. Guess it makes sense in a country where hot water is a luxury.
Washing started, my next priority is dishes. Not having a dishwasher, there are always dishes to put away, dishes to rewash, as well as a whole new set of dishes to be washed. It is a never ending cycle. Perhaps if I had a light over the sink, the rewash step could be eliminated. But I know that’s an excuse. I lack patience and diligence. I need to take pride in every task. Haste makes waste.
Standing at my sink, I try to savor the moment and revel in the experience of the lukewarm, cistern water flowing over my hands. I slow my breathing and focus on the sudsy sponge gliding in circles over over the smooth surface of my breakfast bowl, rejoicing in the transformation from griminess to cleanliness.
Chatter breaks my zen moment.
Two women and a teenage boy are walking past my kitchen window, apparently not bothered by the curfew. There is an uptick in people and traffic in the early hours as evaders squeeze in an outing before patrols are out. A few moments later a jogger bounces by, followed by an unemployed dive instructor, zipping by on his motorcycle. That’s odd. The guy lives in Trade Winds on the opposite side of the island. Past me there isn’t much other than a couple hotels, a few closed restaurants and the public beach. Guess he must have needed some fresh air. We all do.
Nirvana lost, I rush through the remaining dishes, resigned to addressing any cleaning imperfections later.
I swipe the sweat from my brow and survey the house, dreading the next task – beating back the dust. I wipe down every surface before chasing the dust bunnies with my broom, the ever present ceiling fans aiding them in their flight. Living on the main road, a constant deluge of dust coats everything, including the ceilings and walls. Two shedding cats don’t help either. Dust and I engage in a never-ending battle for dominance, the victor yet to be determined.
My dress is sodden by the time I finish. The fans are no match for the raging inferno that is the sun. My house is a testament to the greenhouse principl, being usually a good six degrees warmer inside than outside. It is only 9 a.m., and it’s already 88 degrees.
The heat is starting to squelch what little enthusiasm for housekeeping I had, but I need to knock off at least one item that plagues my sleep. Something easy, physically undemanding. Everything on my mental list of procrastinated chores feels too exhausting. Wait. I spot something that is an affront to good housekeeping everywhere: a less-than-clean, small, off-white fan perched on my kitchen counter. Although I have wiped down the outside numerous times, the inside remains a dark-grey, dirty mess. Most unappetizing.
I dash to my stifling laundry room, fetch a few screwdrivers and dismantle the fan within ten minutes. Wary of my assembly skills, I stop short of disconnecting the blades from the motor. Why haven’t I done this ages ago? This is so easy. After washing the plastic parts in the sink and wiping the fan blades, I reassemble the device, rejoicing in its clean, ivory brilliance for a moment before I plug it in and bask in a blast of warm air.
Is it 5 o’clock somewhere? I’m ready for a break. Alas, one last bit of morning housework remains: hanging laundry. Here on the island, power is expensive, so in lieu of using an electric or gas dryer (which few have), most people use nature’s dryer.
My laundry room is in the back of the house through my media room, forty-four steps from my laundry lines on the deck off the kitchen. I pull a piece out of the washer, march to the front of the house, step over Lily, collect two clothes pins from the blue bucket permanently parked on a side table, step over Bruno and trudge outside. Both cats are sprawled across the floor, too hot to sleep on their favorite chairs.
Ouch!
Some little devil has stung my ankle.
Another beastlet attempts to munch on my thigh.
Swat!
Shoot, I am too late to put him out of my misery. I quickly pin the dish towel to the line and rush inside.
Argh. I wish mosquitos would observe the toque de queda absoluto. Guess they’re like the cats: the outside world matters not a wit.
After lathering my legs with baby oil, an effective barrier against sand flies and other small munchers, I resume my fitness program, picking up one item at a time. Each time I peer into the drum of my rusting washing machine, I am tempted to pick up an extra piece or two or three. This is so inefficient. But really, what else do I have to do all day? Bruno must have been asking himself the same question for he interrupts his morning nap to join in my workout regime, bursting ahead of me each time I re-enter the house.
Twenty minutes, 1,200 steps, a heart rate in the mid 110’s and one panting cat later, all my towels are now enjoying the hot, sultry sea breeze.
Chores completed, I have morphed into a damp dish rag in need of wringing out. A refreshing beverage is in order, lest I succumb to heat exhaustion. I find a large glass and fill it to the brim with hibiscus juice from the fridge. People here make it themselves from dried hibiscus flowers (actually the calyxes that support the petals), water, sliced ginger and sugar. Not being a sweet beverage fan, I have discovered the juice is equally delightful unsweetened.
I move the freshly-cleaned fan to the living room table and perch myself in front of it. The breezy air combined with the refreshing slice of heaven slinking in a cool stream down my throat begins to revive me. All that is missing is some relaxing music. I select a choral recording to add an air of Sunday to the day and stream it on my bright blue, Bose speaker. I take another sip of my refreshing, tart beverage, now recuperated enough to amp up the productivity and work on a new year’s resolution: improve my Spanish.
Thanks to Mum’s family subscription, I enjoy the in-depth reporting of the New York Times. Recently, I discovered something way cool. At the top of the home page are seven little letters, “ESPAÑOL.” When I click on them, I am greeted with a slew of articles in Spanish relevant to a Latin American audience. Perfect.
I select an article on Bolsonaro. I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t know he was the president of Brazil. I spend far too much time reading fluff like how to better organize your pantry or what the Queen had for lunch. Brain candy. Reading about Bolsonaro’s lackadaisical response to what he considers no more than a flu leaves me relieved to be living in a country that is taking the threat seriously.
My reading is brutally interrupted.
“Contestaré! Contestaré!” bursts in through my windows, overwhelming the soothing strains of the Benedictine Nuns of Saint-Michel de Kergonan.
Oh no. Not again.
Living in the tropics means living in a semi-outdoor state, so your neighbor’s arguments, parties and music come into your house as if emanating from right outside your window, which I guess is kinda accurate.
This infernal babble isn’t even coming from next door. It’s the house caddy-corner behind me.
The volume here is set at a different level than the U.S. Everything is at maximum, from conversations to music. I am surprised anyone has any hearing left, but then, maybe that is why everything is so loud, begging the question, which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Irritated, I click off my relaxing choral chant and try to resume reading my article.
“Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!”
Really? That loud, obnoxious song?
My living room is overrun with noise and beat. I debate closing the windows and turning on the air conditioner. But since these island windows do not shut properly, they do little to dampen sound, leaving loads of gaps for the warm exterior air to infiltrate inside. I have ordered new, modern windows that slide shut, but those windows are quarantined in La Ceiba.
My walls rattle with an onslaught of boom, chicka, chicka, BOOM BOOM!
I have to reduce that racket somehow. Juice and iPad in hand, I head into the media room on the far side of the house, though distance seems to matter little as the beat engulfs my home from every angle. But lousy sound muffling is better than none at all, and it will cost substantially less to air condition the tiny space, especially if I eschew a cooler setting. I shut the windows and doors and turn on the air to 86 degrees, the maximum.
“I won’t give it to you, I won’t give it to you!”
Grumble. That infernal ruckus is still piercing the walls.
“I won’t give it to you, I won’t give it to you, I won’t give it to you.”
That’s repetitive. Wonder what he won’t give? No, I’m not hearing it right. I think he is rapping, “Ah wan give it to ya! Ah wan give it to ya! Ah wan give it to ya! Ah wan give it to ya!” That makes more sense. I’m not going to ask what he wants to give.
I arrange the throw pillows against one arm of the sofa bed and sit lengthwise, feet extended to the far end. Willing myself to ignore Mr. Ah-Wan-Give-It-To-Ya, I return to my reading. I am a slow reader in Spanish since I have to look up a fair number of words. However, by plugging away a little at time, my aged brain is starting to show signs of catching on.
A quiet, high-pitched meow filters in from the hallway. Bruno. I put down the iPad and open the door for my orange and white fluffball.
Just as I settle back into my comfy reading position and Bruno rolls into a ball near my feet, an urgent, loud squawk interrupts us. Someone is feeling left out. How can such a little cat make such a big sound. Groaning, I rise again and let her royal highness in.
I must have fallen asleep in spite of the clamor, for I awake to Bruno sleeping above me on the back of the sofa and Lily now curled up at my feet.
The melodic strains (not!) of “Comprendí. Si. Si. Si.” boom through the walls. Oh, I recognize that tense – “I understood” – past preterite. “Yes. Yes. Yes!”
My elation at recognizing a basic grammar principle is short-lived as the music ratchets up a few decibels, vibrating the walls. Arghh! Sometimes I feel like my body will be found in my house, days after I have not been heard from, with my obituary reading, “Death by deafening music.”
I need to take a deep breath and get on with my day. It is 1:49 pm. Lunch is overdue. I turn off the air conditioner, open the windows and head into the main part of the house.
A dense wall of hot air descends upon me the moment I step into the hall. I am tempted to do an about face and squirrel away in the media room, but a loud gurgle emanating from my stomach tells me it’s been too long since breakfast.
The walls reverberate with “Si está conmigo, no importa,” “If you are with me, it doesn’t matter,” as the sweat coalesces into small droplets on my forehead. My chest tightens at the caterwauling and insane temperature.
I rush to close two exterior doors and seven sets of louvres in the combined living-dining area, the eighth having corroded into a permanently shut state. I drag a litter box into the hallway and shut three interior doors before clicking on the air conditioner. This is going to be dear. I can just see the kilowatts ticking down on my meter, but I have to dampen the clamor and squelch the heat.
The music surges to distortion levels while the heat and humidity combine to propel the tumult into my house at record speed. All I can decipher is, “Lo siento . . .” Yes, the singer should be sorry for making such a racket. Maybe I should haul out my earplugs.
To my relief, it doesn’t take long for the air conditioner to cut through the swelter. By the time I am slicing my avocado, I can start to breathe again. I am making a salad out of the few vegetables available during these times. The island is amply resupplied with local essentials such as cucumbers, green peppers, tomatoes and avocados, but short on my favorite dark green veggies.
After lunch, I decide to chip away at another new year’s resolution: return to writing. I had tried writing a novel, but after completing a lengthy initial draft, I realized I was just not that into the titular topic: Fifty One Night Stands. My amorous scenes were more text-book than passion. I have discovered living a quiet, monastic life with two cats is not conducive to writing about romance.
They say you should write about what you know. And one thing I do know is what it’s like to live on a small, hot, muggy, bug-infested tropical island. Over the course of the first few months of this year, my writing resolution morphed into the form of a blog. I pull up the draft on my next short story, For the Love of Veggies, and begin working on it.
“— con una persona . . . con una persona . . . fui una persona . . . entiendo . . . escuchando —” interrupts my thoughts. This song is played a lot. Is that fui una persona or fue una persona, “I was a person” or “it was a person”?
Focus.
Writing is not going well. I am too distracted and annoyed. I check the time – 3 o’clock – and smile for the first time since I turned on my nuns. It’s time to tune into FaceBook Live to hear the Governor of the Bay Island’s daily update. I’ve discovered that the cats are not great conversationalists, so the sound of a human voice is comforting. Oh wait. It is Sunday. He doesn’t do Live on the weekends. Bummer.
With the curfew, there are no beginnings to the week. No hump days. No TGIF days. No weekends. Every day is Tuesday.
I am going to miss the Governor’s talk. He is a tireless public servant doing his best to protect the residents of the Islas de la Bahia and keep them informed. He and his team helped repatriate over 3,000 people, principally tourists, who were stuck here when the quarantine hit. This was a massive endeavor, requiring coordinating with embassies and consulates from various countries, the central Honduran government and private carriers like United who flew in plane after empty plane to pick up the stranded.
A percussive, boom, boom, boom, shakes my walls, followed by “Quiero -,” “I want.”
Yes, I want this infernal music to stop, but I don’t think that is what this guy is singing about. He probably wants the love of a woman. Come to think of it, I don’t remember hearing a single woman singing. It’s always a male.
I give up.
My mind has turned into music-crushing mush, and productive work is but a figment of my dulled imagination. Time for something less mentally taxing. I turn off the living room air, open the windows and head to the media room, where I duplicate the process in reverse. Haven’t I done this today already?
I turn on the PlayStation (also known as an overpriced DVD player) and complete the next Classical Stretch episode since other than my one thousand and one trips from the laundry room to the deck, I rarely move. At least now, I have twenty-five minutes of stretching and strengthening exercises – vital for the aging couch potato.
Feeling virtuous, I am ready to tackle the dried laundry hanging outside. I turn off the air and repeat my room-exiting process.
“Que falta amor . . . una piscina que muestre la amor,” barrels through my open windows.
“What is missing love . . . a swimming pool that shows love.” Um. I don’t think I heard that one correctly. Maybe I would be better off if I knew no Spanish, then I wouldn’t have random words invading my consciousness.
Although the air has only been off for a half hour, my living room has transformed into purgatory, thick with steam and heat. It is an unpalatable 95 degrees, the scorching summer sun arriving early this year to squelch the spirits of hapless, house-bound wretches like me.
Having little energy to continue my fitness program and wishing to avoid the deluge of crepuscular insects, I load up with as much laundry as my arms can carry and throw the lot on the nearest surface, the dining room table. After a few short outings, my work is done. Bathed in sweat, I sigh in relief as the last window is closed and I can return the house to a habitable temperature.
“— mi amore” barges through the walls.
“ — my love.” No love lost here. And no escape. Quarantine has imprisoned me. With the windows shut, all I see is the vague outline of the exterior bars behind the panes. My louvres are made of obscured glass, pebbly on one side for privacy. I would prefer the view.
An empty feeling gnaws at me. Dinner beckons. I contemplate the crowning touch to a not-so-relaxing, totally-aggravating Sunday as I fold the towels. Stumped, I paddle over to the refrigerator and stare at its bulging contents. Having been spoiled by epic U.S. fridges, I struggle with my demure unit, being forced to become a specialist in spatial relations.
The limitations of its diminutive size are compounded by the omnipresent heat, which mandates storing certain basic supplies in the cold to keep them from going off. Why even beer-making, which requires “room temperature” for the yeast to develop properly, has to have its own fridge since room temp here can be twenty degrees above the yeast’s happy place.
Two months ago, I gave in and bought a small overflow unit that tucked neatly into a corner of my laundry room once I removed the chop saw (now in the media room closet) and large stack of tiles (given away). Fortunately, my set of big buckets fit on top. Storage here is a 3D puzzle. I can’t move one item without displacing four others.
Boom! Chick, chick, boom, boom! Boom, chick, boom, chick, boom! vibrates into the house, followed by “otra vez . . . otra vez.” “again . . . again”? No, no, not again.
I am beginning to have empathy for the Guantanamo detainees who were bombarded with loud, cacophonous music. Is non-stop, thundering noise considered a form of torture prohibited by the Geneva Convention?
Focus, Sandra. Dinner. Hmm. Half a chayote, half a carrot and half an onion need using. Plus, I have chicken and coconut milk in the freezer, if I can find them. Yes, I see the makings of one fine meal.
I fish through the bins in my freezer, amazed at how much I crammed in there. I guess if you’re cooking for one, everything will be one-person sized, making for a lot of small packages. As much as I like to use reusable containers, my glovebox of a freezer can’t handle them. Chorizo, ground pork, tomato sauce, beans, lionfish, all are squeezed into small plastic bags, tops tied into knots. The only items that have a proper container are whole wheat flour and dried grains, which go rancid in the heat before you can blink an eye.
Again?
“Contestaré Contestaré,” interrupts my search. That tiresome playlist is on repeat, as usual. I hear the same damn songs every single time.
This is frustrating. Finally, I locate a bag marked, “Chix Stir Fry,” and one marked, “Coco Milk.”
I sear the chicken, remove it from the pan, then sauté half an onion until it is soft and golden. Next comes the carrot, chopped chayote and some green curry paste I had in the fridge. Returning the chicken to the skillet, I add the coconut milk and let the mixture cook while I clean up the breakfast dishes, which in spite of rushing earlier are passably clean.
Two sets of yellow-green eyes peer up at me. The cats have been pacing between their food bowls and me this past half hour. They break out into a chorus of anxious meows when they see me open the pantry door.
As I listen to the satisfied crunching of Purina Cat Chow, I pull out a white cloth napkin, a gold-rimmed plate and gold-plated flatware – a proper Sunday table setting. This will make up for this morning’s brain freeze. Though, in this heat there must be a better word to describe completely forgetting something basic. A blond moment? At this point, being under house arrest, deprived of the joys of sunlight but living with the misery thereof, I’m turning more brunette than blond. How about a senior moment? Eeeh gads, that’s worse. I think I’ll stick with brain freeze.
“Sabemos . . . hablando . . . qual es . . . eso necesito . . . gritas . . . qual es.”
Enough!
I am ready to scream, visualizing a soul-satisfying, full-throated, spine-curling howl – a perfect vent for my accumulated day’s frustrations. But the walls are thin, and I would not want the neighbors to think someone was being murdered, even if that is what it feels like. Instead, I take a deep breath and will myself to block out the ceaseless clamor and concentrate on dinner.
Mmm. The coconut milk has lightly coated and melded the ingredients together. The bland chayote has transformed into a foundation for the other flavors, allowing the mellowness of the sautéed onion, the heat from the curry paste and the pop of sweetness from the carrot to shine. Delicious.
Satiated, I am one happy camper in spite of the background din. One advantage of living on your own is that you can cook to suit yourself. And today, the spicy dish hit the spot even if it did cause me to sweat more.
Ba da boom, ba da boom, ba da boom breaks the moment. A song with a loud beat pummels my home. So much for digesting in peace. Might as well do dishes. Having been lazy earlier, I now have both lunch and dinner to contend with.
After I am done, I plop myself on the sofa to stream a murder mystery on my iPad. I would prefer to stream on my television, but alas my MacBook, which I use to stream movies, refuses to display any signs of life. Not a whimper. Not a craggily purr. Nothing. Time for laptop number three since I’ve moved here. Replacing electronics that succumb to the sea air is a budget-busting, full time occupation.
My cats, never far, take up residence in the two chairs across from me, preparing for a post-supper snooze while their full bellies digest.
I swipe the volume bar up to maximum to hear over the drone of the music. Half-way through, the sound bursts from my iPad, too loud for my ears. I quickly pause the movie and take a slow, deep breath. Silence. Golden silence. After ten hours straight, someone’s ears finally gave out.
Joy! Oh joy! My sentence has been commuted! I leap up, click off the air conditioner, open up the house and turn on the ceiling fan.
It’s too dark to see much outside, but with the windows open, I can hear the gentle lapping of the water on the rocks across the street and the sound of a gecko clicking away.
“Hallelujah, oh yea, hallelujah oh yea.”
No. Please, no.
I jumped the gun. No rejoicing for me. Finding out who the murderer was can wait. All I want to do now is shower off the day’s sweat and aggravation, put in my ear plugs and go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a new day and a fresh start . . . I hope.
© 2020 Sandra Y. K. Loder
Originally published April 26, 2020
