PicoBlog

A solar eclipse on a (Meatless) Monday. Here, it is expected to clock in at ninety-two percent, definitely not the stuff of televised hoopla.

The night before, my mother-in-law reminds me of the colander trick, the one in which you turn your back to the planets and find a reflective surface. Perched just so against the neighbor’s basement door, it can capture millions of celestial crescents instead of spaghetti.

When the planets finish their dance, I head to a friend’s place for some grounding. Behind the rose bushes and surrounding a pine tree, a patch of stinging nettles awaits. Just six inches high, their tops are ready for snipping. Gloves on, I crouch and pluck while my friend sits on the grassy mound beside me. We talk about the day and already the lightheadedness is gone.  My plastic sack is a heap of leafy prickles; a quick dip in boiling water will take care of that. Then, pesto.

The tax forms are due, and Mercury is retrograde, too. Friends who can’t board international flights or get broken wrists fixed because of insurance mishegoss.

The pesto is a balm for the nerves. Even without the ricotta.

You don’t have glaucoma …. yet, says the nice doctor, showing me the glossy photos of my optic nerve. And no, you can’t eat extra carrots and keep it at bay, I learn. It’s my inheritance.

The visual field test is like a video game, I decide. Click, click. Jeezus, I hope I’m doing this right.

Joyce, the woman sitting across from me in the optical waiting area, remarks on my yellow and orange track suit, how “sunny” I look.

“Not like a tropical fruit salad?” I say. “A little papaya, maybe?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a papaya,” she replies.

The optician, who’s wearing banana-yellow Doc Martens, is my new friend and eyewear sherpa. There must be ten pairs in the black box as we stroll along the wall of frames. The fuchsia pair a little too clownish, I say.  Sure, the stop sign shape is fun, but it doesn’t match the fruit salad. I land on something matte and metallic.

Petrol, he says, reading the label. That’s the color. But what these pre-glaucoma eyes see is gray blue, not even close to what I imagine when I think of gasoline.

Nova is the dog two doors over. A big lunk of a retriever who has decided our yard is hers. When her people come home from work, she jumps over the fence and bounds in. I admire her determination, knocking down the plywood barrier. She knows what’s good. The arugula and kale, the chives and the spinach just showing its head. Wait till she gets a load of the poppies next month.

Thank you for the incredible response to the story of Damian and for sharing it with your own communities. —kod

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