I wake up feeling guilty.  Of course I do.  Mom alone far away.  Poverty.  Too many possessions.  Too much wine for too long, thinking I'd be a sommelier.

I want to meditate.

I spend much of the day on the bed, meditating, corpse pose.   There's nothing I really want to do, or feel I can do.  You can only take so much before you need to calm yourself and regroup.  I have some tea, even freshly made, but it doesn't inspire me.  The water wasn't hot enough, and I was light on the tea leaves.  It's raining heavily, Hurricane Isaias coming through as a tropical storm, wind up in the trees when I wake with the light.  I call mom, no answer, get through to her later, then go back to my meditations on the bed.  No room on the floor with the bike on the trainer stand.

I finally get up and take a shower.  Shaving off a week's growth of beard takes several passes, holding the razor under the water steadily after each swipe to clear the blades.  My prescriptions should be ready, so, I try mom again as I venture up the sidewalk past the reservoirs up the CVS in the old Palisades movie theater.  Dr. Patel called in, after my appointment Monday.  I'm standing in the line, after the woman in front of me, not so happy herself, the African lady finally coming back from the bathroom walking on one artificial leg, is just about through with her business.   And then the phone is buzzing.  Mom calling.  Yes, Mom, what should I do, everybody left, maybe I should just kill myself.  What should she do.  I'm not doing too well myself, I tell her.  I'm at the CVS.  Can I call you back in five minutes...

The pharmacist behind the second counter suggests I get a flu shot.  Sure, why not.  One more precaution for the times.  One of the prescriptions is ready, the generic Lexapro, at a slightly higher dosage.  The doctor forgot to call in the beta-blocker Propranolol which tames blood pressure and eases some of the body's reaction to anxiety.

As soon as I get out, I try mom's landline again.  No answer.  It's getting hotter now, sweat pooling under my cap, matting down my hair as I walk my loser self back along the reservoirs toward the little apartment, putting my mask up as people approach, under the elms.



The Buddhist thinking tells you to mediate upon your cravings, to observe them without judgment.  What do they feel like?  Where in the body.  I keep trying mom as I get into the apartment.  Taking off my linen shirt, the hat, my glasses, the mask, washing my hands.  The craving for wine starts in the chest, lower, near the solar plexus.  It's a desire to find some calm, with all the stress of the day that's hitting you in the gut, a weight that's pressing on you, extra,  on top of breathing.  Then you throw in the loneliness on top of that.

Just a little bit, on the rocks, with a good splash of soda water.  Just to calm down.  It doesn't feel good necessarily, with a few sips in, but it's a habit, an obsession, and in some ways, it works.

Then she calls, as I'm cooking the black eyed peas I soaked overnight, around 9 at night.  Again, it's the matter of whether she's in the right place or not.  Yes, you are mom.  The cat knows his way back and forth.  She'd put the phone down, per our agreement, to go out and check to make sure, looking at the number on the apartment townhouse complex.  I waited awhile.  Finally, I heard the kitchen door, not the front door, creak open, and then I hear her talking to the cat, asking him if this can works, after opening it up.  Then she goes away.  I hear her in a few more minutes calling my name, as if I were there in person.  Then I hear the phone go click.  So I try calling back, it rings, she picks it up, but doesn't speak to it, and then she hangs up again.  I call, it rings, but then I see she's calling.