Is it raining out? my roommate asks. In the hospital, you can't tell.
Maybe it's sprinkling a little, I'm not sure, I tell her, turning from the window and creeping back to bed. I think of the garden and its urgent need of water. Rain, dammit, I think as I wiggle myself and my IV back between the sheets.
At least I fed Ethel Merman before I left yesterday afternoon, and she'll probably be all right until tomorrow. That bird can eat. Maybe they'll let me go tonight, if they find nothing much wrong, and I can fill the feeders again tomorrow. Otherwise, Q will learn how to fill hummingbird feeders. But will he think it's as exacting a science as I do? I guess this is what we mean by trust.
Oh, outside! Where it rains and you can smell it coming. Where the heat settles on you and a breeze relieves it. My prayer is regular in the hospital -- there are few other demands on my attention. But my little bird is a prayer, too, as is each flower. I can't help but feel I could be doing all of this at home, sending prayers of thanksgiving to the maker of all.
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I seem not to be gravely ill, and am here in the hospital as a precaution. Thanks in advance for your prayers.
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