Another Day: A Mind in Grief

By Jules Lightfoot

Another Day by Jules Lightfoot

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636301006

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Another Day

A Mind in Grief

Jules Lightfoot

ISBN 978-1-63630-098-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63630-099-3 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63630-100-6 (Digital)

Copyright © 2020 Jules Lightfoot

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

A Summer Day, 8:00 AM

Mowing and Other Yard Work, 9:00 AM

Dusting, 1:30 PM

The Dusting Done, 2:30 PM

The Laundry Room, 3:00 PM

The Laundry Room, Continued

Leaving the Basement, 3:30 PM

Running, 4:00 PM

The Beach, 5:30 PM

Dinner and Bonfire, 7:30 PM

Bedtime, 11:30 PM

A Summer Day, 8:00 AM

The day does come. She isn’t remotely eager about this one either—only sufficiently committed to the tasks at hand…and foot. She starts by pushing both of them from the bed to the floor. Reality keeps her head on the pillow as her feet continue their dangling toward the floor, lifeless. Covering her head with various pieces of bedding, the alarm’s third blast reminds her that ridding of the day is not an option; she eventually sits up. Leaning forward, her hands firmly find their place on the edge of the bed. He had paused this same way before rising to adjust his backbone; she does this now just to get one. Through the screens, the early mourning sounds from the birds accompany her hands that slowly move back and forth over his sheets. The day is with her as she makes her way to the kitchen. Coffee helps somewhat.

She plans her work. The yard has to be mowed, the house has to be dusted, bills have to be paid, the laundry needs to be washed, and her body needs food. Feeding can be done much easier than some would think, but the yard and the house are different stories altogether. On this morning, the growing grass clamors louder than the silent laundry basket: the dirty clothes aren’t getting dirtier, but the grass will be bigger tomorrow, and currently there is no rain coming from the sky. Thus, today the mowing moves to the top of the list, the laundry is put on tomorrow’s list, the dusting will happen this day in the afternoon either before or after the grandchildren can go to the beach, and the bills can wait. A bit. With her newfound flatness and readied resignation, she dresses for yard work.

Mowing and Other Yard Work, 9:00 AM

First, the lawn mower has to be moved out of the garage. She opens the door to the garage, stops, and assesses. She might as well be moving the garage itself, because in order to get the mower out of the garage the car has to be moved out, and she learns the keys to the car are not in their proper place, and even if the keys can be found, there are piles of empty boxes and crap in the way of the mower. She scans the bigger scene. Also in the way are the garbage can and the recycling bin (the bin that is supposed to house the boxes), but the boxes and crap first need to be sorted and folded according to the directions on some flier so that only certain pieces of recycling—that used to be referred to as garbage—can make their way into the behemoth bin, which is bigger than the garbage can she bumps into on her way to find the car keys and from which the dandelion digger subsequently falls because she hadn’t put it away the last time she was digging dandelions and other invasive species from the yard. In the dark.

Breathe. Focus on the positive. Adjusting the view ameliorates. At least the garbage can isn’t really a can. Colliding with sturdy plastic, with its lid attached at one end, is better than bumping into and knocking over the flimsy 1960s metal can of my youth, lid flying, trash spewing, all on the loose. Events are relative—as are the choices required during and after the events. So now which do I do…find the car keys to move the car, or transform the recyclable boxes to fit into the recycling bin?

Neither. There is another option. She puts the dandelion digger away because it is the only thing that can be done right now without rummaging through the thick waste that fills her thinking—waste she yearns could be dumped out like loose trash from an old metal can.

Setting the dandelion digger in the chaotic bin was my second major accomplishment for the day, with the first being rising from the bed. Yes, I am having a successful morning, because what I felt like doing with the little manual weed destroyer was to hurl it headlong against the garage wall…but if that would have happened, I would be responsible for undoing the damage. I don’t need any more self-induced work. Restraint can be majestic.

Relishing the major success is quickly overshadowed by the reams of cardboard and other rubbish. Releasing audible words that she would have been ashamed of at another time, she pushes and presses through the thickness in her head, reminding herself of the list of tasks for the day—missions, that if accomplished, will keep the end of the day a little less dark.

Move faster! The situation will worsen if you don’t stay ahead of the tidal wave. It will swallow.

The keys are found, the car is moved out of the garage, the mower is wheeled into the driveway, and the gasoline container is discovered to be almost empty.

Of course, it is. Maybe I should have taken our daughters—the girls—up on their offer to hire a yard boy. But then again, maybe not…because I would have to be friendly to him and then show and tell him what I expect. And he probably would suck at trimming along the edges and he’d probably mow over the dandelions instead of digging them out first—even if I asked him to—and he’d be thirsty, ask to use my bathroom, and want to introduce me to his mom. No yard boy. Maybe a cardboard box and recycling bin boy would be more helpful: I have no standards in this area.

Moving slower between transitions than she has ever known herself to move, she can’t help but notice the oil stains that are further ruining what is left of her crappy garage floor. She whips a couple of cardboard pieces onto the oil stains, hankering for her father who had fastidiously laid pieces of cardboard in his tidy, little garage so as to prevent the car oil from staining the cement. Cement from the 1950s that was made to last for many decades; and it did.

My father also died too soon! Oil—you take