A bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part.
– Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter
…or I might just be ill. Perhaps Hawthorne is correct–perhaps my spiritual past has sickened my physical present–or perhaps I just caught an illness from one of my cohorts at the inn last weekend. Dear Reader, I shall not disturb you with the details, but I have been ill this week.
This week I have heard cries of “That was the last of the paper towels! Barricade him into the kitchen!” and “Quick, he’s at the door! Grab a bag!” and “Oh, no! Open a window, and I’ll get the spray!”
I understand that little illnesses like this come and go, but I do regret one loss from this illness. Man and woman have decided that my bed is destroyed and that it cannot be restored to its former glory. “We’ll get you a new one at PetSmart this weekend,” they say. I miss my bed. Here it is when it was in its original, pristine condition:
The smells of deodorizing chemicals invade my senses before they drift out the windows and into the chill November air. I go through periods of time when I feel glorious, with not a care in the world, but then my body reminds me that I may not ignore its sickly impulses.
I will write again when this melancholy mood lifts–perhaps when I am given my new bed. Until my insides stop their terrible complaints, I am confined to the kitchen and dining room (“not on the rug–not again!” they say). I miss my nice bed.