In Fog

I did three loads of laundry today. As I folded the duvet cover, I did not put it back on the pristine white duvet. Why?

I am living for now. It is only a duvet. I am no longer protecting the future, but rather living in the present.

I remember how my mother only took out her good china teacups on special occasions. I used to tease her about this, but later I would understand. She was a child of the Depression and of scarcity. I have known no scarcity. I have never known scarcity.

But I do know what living in fog is like.  I do not know if my medical condition is anemia or cancer nor will any doctor truly tell me what is going on in my body. I am a liability—a walking time bomb. The hospital gave me a drug and I had a violent reaction which sent me back to the hospital. It could happen to anyone, but it is me. They do not like my questions.  

I live in fog. But I like the white duvet cover stretching out across my bed. And even if my two beautiful cats—Little Beatrice and Jasmine—wish to play upon it, that is okay with me.

Play on.

 Live now.

 In fog.