Isn’t it strange that such a simple greeting, such a common, everyday off-the-rack wear English phrase, or a similar phrase in any other language for that matter, could be so life affirming. Good morning. Well it is good; you’re hearing it. That has to mean something.
It certainly would mean something entirely different if morning never arrived or if you, my dear, were not on the planet to receive it. And for those of you single people out there in the world; I say good morning particularly to you. You can say it out loud to yourself, you know. There’s no shame in it. Besides, you’ve a lovely voice anyway.
I have decided, dearest, that there shall be no death today. I’m tired of it, frankly. It’s all in the news and in the papers, what few there are remaining, and on the interwebs or whatever they’re calling the invisible Greek Chorus humming our doom to the jingle of a thousand adverts these days. (I shall call it Nueva Babylonia. Or Bologna. Nueva Bologna. There, I’ve said it and it’s stuck now. There’s no getting past it.)
Death is, to be honest, played out and none of its permutations, no matter how grand or how poignant, how simple or dignified, or terribly disappointing or traumatic, have proven to be revelatory in the slightest. We’ve never learned anything from someone else’s passing or our own. Well, what little we can deduce from our own passing can’t be shared, really, so it’s a total loss. Therefore, I declare that this day, in these words, for the extent of these pages, there will be no death or dying. We shall concentrate on living, then.
And on doing the dishes. You can’t achieve great works of literature or accounting or whatever it is you do, my dear, with a sink load of dirty dishes. You know what dirty dishes are? Food stained platters of disappointment and shortcomings, hard crusty experience, the oily residue of a previous day’s mistakes, and a leaning tower of I Should Haves. Besides, it’s an invitation to mice.
While you’re doing that, I’m going to plan our trip to Morocco. I’ve never been, have you? I don’t think you ever said. I know I have completely romanticized it, like I do everything. It’s all Ingrid Bergman and oranges and coffee and dates stuffed with almonds and dusted in cinnamon, where the air is so sugary that bees simply hover mid-air and grow fuzzy and fat – as I would certainly do, stuffing myself on dates. I quite imagine there are narrow streets. The Morocco I imagine has them anyway and that’s what counts. The sky is cerulean and there is so much color everywhere. And noise. I can hear it. If you turn down the faucet, you’ll hear it, too; traffic and bartering and music and the laughter of children. And like a heartbeat, there is the sound of a football bouncing thud-thud-thud down an alley.
I wonder where it’s off to…