Hangin’ Out

SIP 74, Ankle 43

I suppose I could stop counting, but the calendar itself is meaningless anymore, so this is some way to keep track, barely intelligible marks scratched into the flaking plaster. I am wearing the sexy new black lace-up ankle brace with a big thick beige hiking sock, which is the only one I can force onto my stiff foot. That arrangement gives me a very large item to try and stuff into a shoe, which I am now allowed to wear. But you see that it is a mixed blessing. We hit on the idea to use one of Mr S’s old running shoes, a couple sizes too big, but it works for all that bulk, especially with an orthotic insert. I am better off than I was before with a boot on one side and a mismatched lift on the other, and I can practice walking like a real person until I have to rip the whole thing off and just be. 


So I did some trimming and weeding, and the helper came and worked some more on the paths out back, and we filled the green waste can on the very first day of the cycle. We only get one can a week, so anything else will have to get stockpiled for future pickups. The excess of the garden is calming down, irises and roses have shouted their last hurrahs for the moment. The serious growth of fruits and vegetables is taking over; every day another couple inches on the tomatoes, apples looking more like something you might eat, squash plants pushing out further and further to embrace each other.

The bird, who you are welcome to identify, sat on the arbor over my left shoulder the entire time I was reading outside, emitting a high-pitched squawk every few seconds, either warning others of me or of the cat who had finally settled at my feet. The cat, who Mr S has documented, is indeed my shadow. It is not as charming as it first sounds, because he not only follows me like a puppy, he demands attention incessantly, like a two year old when you’ve finally sat down and picked up the phone to call your best friend at the end of a long day.