Friday, March 18, 2005

running down the hill

Today I felt very much like a small child who drove herself to the emergency room in the morning, and read while she waited, and wore a thin gown, and breathed when they said breathe. Got a prescription, and filled it, and read while they filled it, and bought food in a sack and a chocolate milkshake and walked back into the school cafeteria, sipping, to meet her friends.

It's bronchitis again, but I am somewhat inspired by my sickness, and the promise of a long week in which to recover from it. I plan to do nothing but read and work. Possibly watch French films. The possibilty is thrilling.

Yesterday after teaching, I went to the library and checked out six thick books, and one thin. Yesterday night, I spent mostly in a novel, on the couch in a novel, in a cinnamon-scented suddsy bath in a novel.

I have a reading the week after next for which I am utterly unprepared, and decisions to make, packing, grading.

But right's like Friday afternoon at four, in springtime, getting off the schoolbus and running down the hill, shedding backpack and coat and papers, bursting in the front door, and knowing I have nothing, nothing waiting for me except what I want: the pages stretching out before me like sheets.