Eight forty.

There was frost on everything when I stepped out my front door. My dog is feeling better this morning, and he appears to forgive me for Tuesday. So I told him I’d be right back and walked out the door. Victoria was busy scraping ice off her car windows just across the street. The sky to the east was striped with white cloud as I trudged south. Two other cars idled in the driveway to thaw out. But I saw no human bodies outside. A little later, Michelle told me the delivery truck never came yesterday. So, I made do with a sausage and egg muffin, some cottage cheese, and my usual Snapple tea, plus two snacks for Aesop. My appointment with Todd is at eleven o’clock, but there’s still an hour before I have to go. I just let my dog know I’d be gone for two hours this morning. He’s really smart enough to understand that. Music: David Gilmour’s guitar lead on “Time,” the Pink Floyd classic. It is nearly a half century old by now, old as the hills, or as time itself. I was an eighth grader when I got my brother’s vinyl copy of Dark Side of the Moon and played the grooves off of it. That was before I ever heard Rush… 


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