Jackhammers

At six I heard the dog lie down heavily, with a thump, and then I heard a faint whimper. I've been worrying about him. The arthritis in his hips seems to have worsened. We're giving him a pill in the morning and at night now, to help him be comfortable, but old age comes for us all, and the arthritis will only get worse. He's a brave boy, and when his pills make him comfortable he wants to romp and play. He's still my baby dog, stuck with the hips of an old man.

I was awake anyway. I slept on my neck weird the night before and then, with a locked-up muscle under my scapula, I went on a march in midtown Manhattan with about half a million other people, holding a sign over my head for much of that time. It felt necessary, and important, and I'm glad I did it. But then last night I added two more injections to the arsenal of pills rattling around in my own aging body, and now I feel like I've been hit by a truck.

I don't have the energy to take the ferry to Red Hook to look at art and see friends I haven't seen in a long time. I don't have the stamina to continue on to my sister in law's house.

I haven't even yet mustered the energy to get in the shower. Which, since ibuprofen is forbidden, is the only option on the table to unwind whatever is going on in my back. There are half a dozen things for me to do. Write this, write that. Research this, research that.

The dog and I are tired. And jackhammers are breaking the street thirteen stories down.