The mourning quiet is broken by Milarepa barking at a passing dog. This lasts long enough for the dog in question to disappear from line of sight. The relative quiet of the mourning returns. Coffee brews and I consider whether or not to fry some bacon for breakfast or warm up the rest of the Tunisian chakchouka. The Beatles' Lovely Rita is playing on the radio.
I used to joke I wanted to date a girl named Rita so I could play that song. Of course, it was once remarked I wanted to go out with a Chinese girl so I could play David Bowie's Little China Girl for her. My humor is as such. Sometimes, when the Cracker song Euro-Trash Girl plays within the walls of my skull, I think of Sabina as my angel in black.
Meteorological prophesy foretells of temperatures not even reaching the thirties on the fahrenheit scale. Possible flurries. The dusting from the night before was gone like a dreamtime phantasm upon waking. The sun shines, muted by thin clouds, along the Bull's Head. Along the peak of the mountain I refer to as my personal Kilimanjaro, the snowcap shimmers amongst the bare rock.
There is scheming to make the hop up and over. I require blue jeans. Well, I special ordered them-the joys of my height and skeletal build-a little while back and they've finally arrived. I have the money to make the purchase. Another errand or two will get run as to justify the sixty mile 'round trip. Part of living where we do, something I learned growing up on a farm, is running errands is usually, minimum, ten miles, one way. It is part of the price to be paid.
And all things have a price. This is the nature of the deal. It is only the cheap things, which we purchase with coins and folding paper.
After this hop, any real need for errands will be at an end for a few days. We can go walkabout, a snowshoe, or whatever else. There is the possibility of receiving company, twice, over the next few days, but both visits are still in the initial stages. We have time to get the house in order.
Here and now, I take a swig of water and inhale the lovely aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. I still haven't decided on breakfast or what to wear for the day. Alanis Morissette comes on the radio and I give a small muse toward dinner and the possibility of making croutons. Little things.
None of it is a horribly huge deal. Things to be figured out. After all, I have time.