Final Days

The final days consist of things that I do and do not want to remember. Reliance on a body pillow that does not feel as much like a person as it should. Duct tape on a sandal to prevent chafing because indeed there is swelling and shoes worn every day for 30 days are wet. Sitting in rain, two pregnant women, too stubborn or too smart to move. And laughing about it--before the discomfort of wet clothes pasted to pregnant belly and breasts becomes noticeable. Too much PBS, or anything, for my children. "Uglies" party with people and food and a gaggle of children and candy and sirens and politicians and bagpipes and Beano Band and marching bands and three year olds dancing like Britney "Spearses." Apparently I snubbed Kerry Healy--but not on purpose--nine months of pregnancy an excuse for my suspicion of the friendly pol smile and handshake. And I'll remember Brazilians and Italians and anyfan taking to the streets of Gloucester. Horns and flags and World Cup excitement.

A little rain. Some sun. A lot of sand. Ice cubes. Yes, ice cubes. More like ice shards. Bubbly things to drink. And drive-through. Cold coffee, granules of sugar being sucked through a straw. Tums--smooth, not chalky. You've helped me through.

The end is near. And I'm ready.