The Writer's Cramp 7/14/21
We sat on the porch. Rain dribbled down the rain chains, a gentle shower watered our grass.
John and I chewed on the remains of the day, dissected and digested the events.
“What did you think of that play?” I asked him.
“Well, it had its merits. I really couldn’t hear much. The set was good.”
John just got new hearing aids and new glasses. The play was Shakespeare, outdoors.
“That’s all you can say, the set was good and you couldn’t hear? What about the part where they were fighting? And the mother died? And then the mistaken identity?”
A blank look on John’s face told me he wasn’t paying attention.
“Did you hear me?”
“What? Did you say something?”
“The play last night, the characters. Did you like the fighting?” Still a blank look.
“I’m not fighting with you,” he stated.
I gave up.
“It’s a nice night. Not too hot. And we need the rain. But we’re lucky the garden is doing well. That Irrigation you put in really helped this year.”
John was in his own little reverie.
I sat beside my quiet man, listening to the rain. The remains of the day melted away. More waited to be discussed, but it could wait. It wasn’t all that important.