Looking out my Backdoor: The wrath of Ralph

Rule No. 1: Never write when sick.

Rule No. 2: Do whadevah ya gotta do.

It’s a virus, I’m sure. Caught it from a hug from Josue, who thought he’d eaten bad mangoes. Four days ago. Mangoes good. Virus bad. Hugs good. I’m not going to live under a blister-pak.

I twist myself into knots in order to avoid paying obeisance to the toilet god, Ralph. Fortunately, neither my stomach nor my mind felt hunger that afternoon. I felt listless. I should have seen the clues.

Next day, you couldn’t have forced food past my lips. The very idea clenched my gut and enhanced my mental picture of myself, on my knees, in the little chapel, paying my respects. Both mind and spirit abandoned me. I wanted to die.

Day three, I ate bread, a little melon. Energy low. Could see shadows of human on the horizon.

Day four, enough is enough. I felt better. Ate breakfast. Ralph tapped me on the shoulder. Not now, I said. I need to catch up on all the work I didn’t do the last three days, right?

Prepped pineapple and mangoes to eat later. Washed dishes, dusted, swept, mopped. Collapsed. Ralph returned in fury.

No article from me this week. I’m very sorry. I’m on a retreat. A rest. Seeking refuge in book and bed. Making peace offerings to Ralph.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].