Maybe the low barometric pressure caused the fit to appear. Perhaps its arrival was due to the rapid growth my son has experienced the past few months. Could it be that his new medicine is at too high or too low of a dose? Is he feeling the effects of this crazy world where chaos enables the coronavirus to rule? Are we ever going to curb these weekly seizures—these synapses firing in sick unison—which rack his body and brain? Do Americans have the wisdom, humility, selflessness, compassion and dedication it will take to defeat Covid-19?
Outside, my garden is in good order. Mulch is in its place, its weight suppressing undesired weeds, its color reflective of of the wet trunks of trees. Any errant growth is neatly trimmed, withered blossoms picked and tossed into the compost. Despite my best efforts, I can't adequately control my son's condition, but the shrubs and trees which hug our home I can, to some extent, restrain. They seem responsive to the attention I give them, do well being trained.
On backroads and along the coast, life is wilder. Thunder rolls from across the bay. Lightening strikes like white neurons through skies the shade of gunmetal gray. Rain pelts the windshield in half-dollar drops (what happened to the swarms of bugs that used to splatter the glass?) A lone Confederate flag hypes our nation's racist foundation and its bloody-awful legacy. Black Lives Matter signs, which righteously populate lawns and drives, are looted by trespassers—traitors, fools, thieves.
Back at the house my son recovers from the seizure. Overnight, the rain cleansed streets, quenched flowers, grass and leaves. Day lilies are exploding like little suns in apricots, yellows and reds. My boy is not yet back to baseline. He presses and pokes his roving eyes and frantically knits his fingers, then covers his ears as if to shield them from some unheard racket. But there's no thunder. Just the distant threat of chaos and the so-called tyranny of order.
Outside, my garden is in good order. Mulch is in its place, its weight suppressing undesired weeds, its color reflective of of the wet trunks of trees. Any errant growth is neatly trimmed, withered blossoms picked and tossed into the compost. Despite my best efforts, I can't adequately control my son's condition, but the shrubs and trees which hug our home I can, to some extent, restrain. They seem responsive to the attention I give them, do well being trained.
On backroads and along the coast, life is wilder. Thunder rolls from across the bay. Lightening strikes like white neurons through skies the shade of gunmetal gray. Rain pelts the windshield in half-dollar drops (what happened to the swarms of bugs that used to splatter the glass?) A lone Confederate flag hypes our nation's racist foundation and its bloody-awful legacy. Black Lives Matter signs, which righteously populate lawns and drives, are looted by trespassers—traitors, fools, thieves.
Back at the house my son recovers from the seizure. Overnight, the rain cleansed streets, quenched flowers, grass and leaves. Day lilies are exploding like little suns in apricots, yellows and reds. My boy is not yet back to baseline. He presses and pokes his roving eyes and frantically knits his fingers, then covers his ears as if to shield them from some unheard racket. But there's no thunder. Just the distant threat of chaos and the so-called tyranny of order.
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