Tortoise

The last few days have been slow. I feel slow. My thoughts are slow--and I have all this time to sit here and so I watch my thoughts as I have them and I assess them and decide that I should feel guilty for that one and proud of this one and ashamed of that one and, well, let's have this one to make up for that one. Wishing things to happen quickly?--well, no, you don't want that, either.

She makes the most of this time passing slowly in ways that seem odd sometimes. She sings her moans of pain now, for instance. Any discomfort she has--she'll turn it into a tune. I look at her strangely and she tells me, "Sometimes you need to make fun of things. You need to laugh to make it lighter." And I say, "That's true," and I force a smile. I honestly think that the laugh would come quickly and naturally if I didn't feel so slow--if time wasn't passing at a snail's pace. But it should, right? Happen slowly. Slow is good, right? Like turtles--are good.

Compared to the last month, she's doing well. Her right leg continues to bother her. Walking is difficult and painful. But she's better than she's been in a long time. And I'm not doubtful (which I'm doubtful of). It's strange to think of the last month ... the last just-over-a-month. And it's embarrassing ... to see yourself grow tired. And it's embarrassing that you're so tired and she's still working so hard to feel better.

We should, starting now, pronounce "tortoise" french-style: TORT-WAAAHHZZ. And more than one tortoise should be called the "tortoisie" (TORT-WAHZ-EE). And the ones that do all the work should be called the "pro-le-turtle-at."