Yesterday was the last day of April.
It seems fitting then that it should be the last of the when-was-the-last-time-posts that have lasted for a few days here on the pages of this blog.
I’m done, even if you aren’t.
Besides, it was also the last time I had acupuncture.
Probably not the last time ever, but the last time until the next time.
As has been everything.
Petrified waterfalls, lying on a bench in the village, staring at clouds, river swims, etc.
The man sticking needles in me explained that his donkeys aren’t eating the grass quick enough.
Something I remarked on as I looked out his window at the back yard.
He also asked me to consider how – in French – it is absurd that one speaks of gérer les enfants and rassurer les marchés.
Then he stuck a needle in my little finger.
My digit remained horizontal in protest so the acupuncturist gently folded my finger into relaxation.
He covered me in a blanket.
And I slept.
When I woke the grass was a little longer, we spoke about how cool it could be to hear your own eulogy and whether the world had any chance of getting better.
As I left, I looked at the cherries forming on the tree outside.
“They’re not ready yet,” needle-man observed.
I made a note to try to get an appointment in about three weeks.
“Come back when you’ve finished the book,” he countered, obviously planning to eat them himself.
The book has one thousand and thirty pages.
I’m on number eighty-eight.
He offered me a book mark.
“I have one," I explained and showed him the piece of grass nestling against page eighty-nine.
“That’ll help the donkeys,’ he said.
I waved goodbye.
And drove towards May.
Posts
