I am listless. I need a list. There is no order in my life.
I scrubbed the toilet, the bath tub, the sink. I got down on my knees and wiped the ceramic floor. I vacuumed, fixed the vacuum cleaner, replaced three old electric outlets with new black ones. I've shoveled the driveway and the back yard terrace. His hair was white as snow. It's a biblical reference to purity and light. Why do these ecclesiastical thoughts pop into my head at seemingly the most curios times.

I swept the hardwood floors, cleaned the furnace air filters and the litter box. I went shopping for groceries, but since I did not have a list, I wondered up and down each aisle like a misguided grocery ranger staring at each item with a mixture of suspicion and awe. Why are there so many different types of cream of corn? Have you seen the selection of yogurts? I am convinced there is a dairy conspiracy. Are we being milked?



The cat is a purring, vibrating hot water bottle. It's cold outside. It is cold inside too. The temperature outside is plummeting like a hawk towards some unfortunate prey. It warmed up enough to melt most of the snow off the roads. But now the wind screams like a banshee in heat as it tries desperately to claw it's way between the crack in the door frame. It's the same wind that's driving a cold front, flogging the air mercilessly to sub-zero temperatures. I suppose I should get up and fix the door it but it's not on the list. Besides, the cat is too comfortable.
But not as comfortable or warm as her presence. I call her my shadow. Shadows exist only in the presence of light. A light that shines simply when the phone rings at odd times and her voice breaths hello.
I have to make an appointment for an oil change and cancel another appointment. I have a blood test some time this week. I forgot to pickup cream for coffee and razor blades. I need a list.