Adjustable

On the corner of Stanton and 11th, at the edge of someone’s garden, there is a wooden post sticking out of the ground with an 8 x 11 glass frame. And every week the frame holds a different poem. I always make a point to walk by when I’m in the area. Today I was. It was written by a woman who was mourning her sick cat. She knew his life would not go on much longer, so she thought about all of the times she sat on the couch when she was sad and wasn’t quite alone. When she brought him to be seen, the vet noticed how relaxed he seemed to be in her lap. This was probably something she’s always known, but at the moment, the thought surprised her.

It’s been beautiful all week. Hardly any clouds and the ones that do float in the sky carry some distinguishable shapes. Lauren noticed a chicken wing, Garrett and I decided upon a large man jumping off the diving board to belly flop into a pool. We sat on the porch as Garrett experimented on the guitar and Lauren read her book.

It’s been interesting merging my life now with my life before now. My parents came a few weeks ago. My mom could tell that it was a “greener” place after using the water efficient toilets in the airport bathroom, and my Dad planned a trip to coast (where we continually compared every small beach town we drove through to Drakes Island). We stayed at a golf resort, and he didn’t play golf. I ate meat again. Then Conor came two weeks later. I drank beer and didn’t feel bad about it. He joined in on our mock debate during spirituality night. We walked around North Portland without a particular destination. It was wonderful to have very important parts of my life come together. And now it’s over. So I’m trying my best to bounce back.

So now I will have to reclaim this all again as my own. I took a long walk this morning and tried not to think about work but did. The medication boxes that run out to early, the pen Erwin through on the ground the morning of his last radiation treatment, the drawings Jake tacked to the wall beside the window. I wonder if there is anyone that just forgets about their work the second they walk out of the office. If it’s possible to just push something that you focus 40 hours of your week on out of your mind.

I ended up at Grant Park, on 33rd and Knott by the end of this walk. There were a lot of people there, mostly small children, a girl with a red cape, “DAD MOM AVA ISREAL” written in twigs on the pavement. I sat on one of the benches next to three statues: a girl, a boy, and a dog. They were of Ramona, the protagonist of Beverly Cleary’s books. There was a stone in the ground next to the dog that read, “Ribsy is what you might call a well-adjusted dog.” A trait that should never be taken for granted.