There is a place on the bridge of my nose that will not heal. Last night I noticed that it corresponded perfectly with the rim of a wine glass so I’m calling it a wine scab. Occupational hazard, if you will.
Prior to our walk this morning I dabbed it with some Neosporin and unwrapped a bandaid to put across my nose, reflecting that in some other neighborhoods this would be a signifier that my plastic surgeon had just touched me up. I laughed when I saw that the bandaid was emblazoned with Mickey Mouse–these puppies must have been on clearance–but I adhered it to my nose anyway.
Cold, cold morning so puffy jackets for both me and my dog. His purple, mine gray. Giant white sunglasses which almost hid the bandaid and black hoody over silvery watch cap.
The sun was out and by the time we got to the park I was both singing and whistling ‘Good Morning Starshine.‘ Badly but boldly and punctuated now and again by a cough. Soon Kumo assumed a pooping position and just as he got started the church bells bells began to chime. I looked around and thought how perfect it all is.
My sanctuary. My Sunday.
It’s so very good to be alive.