The Man in the Blue Shirt

It's a really nice Lands' End long-sleeve blue shirt that Sis got Dan for Christmas or his birthday. He looks handsome in it.

He came home from working in the city yesterday--he had a fruitful meeting for a New York Times Magazine article--and tried to talk me out of my depression with the kind of no-nonsense advice he might give as the yellow-hatted, bow-tied 60-Second Novelist--on the rare occasions that he gives advice, rather than telling each subject's story.

It reminded me of the hard-won wisdom from his Grandma Millie, who had a hardscrabble Hell’s Kitchen childhood and later worked in the Tootsie Roll Factory.

Ya don't work, you can't eat. Ya don't eat, ya can't work, she would say. This from a woman about 4 feet tall.

I heard his footsteps coming up the creaky wood stairs in this old house, calling Ali. With Punch away at Mimi's till Thursday, we had time and space to talk frankly.

I could barely get out of bed yesterday. It was superhot. My heart shrunk 10 sizes. I felt bitter, sad, disappointed, disillusioned. Angry. Powerless, I guess. Confused. Everything seemed broken or dead, from the dishwasher to the garden. Poor Sug, she lay in exhausted position by my side, loyal and true. I had to get up a few times to let her out, to feed her. I couldn't answer texts from my Sis, Moey and Lorraine. Could not make plans. Skipped my appt for annual physical and did not call. Could not confirm I would go to therapy today. But then I texted I will come and now I have to get in the shower and go--out in a crackling thunderstorm. It's probably appropriate, to snap me out of my inertia.

Today, Dan made me a list. I normally do this myself. He brought me coffee. I appreciated his kindness. I felt so lost.

TTYL.