Pretty sure.

The few phone conversations I’ve had of late with the more and less beloved have ended abruptly, and have not been ended by me. Unusual …

But perhaps understandable.

Today someone asked me if I’d be “here” awhile, and I said what I’ve been saying for the last month:

If life does not improve for the happier, I will never move again, and be Here until I die.
If things do improve, then one more move, to the promised land. But there’s no guarantee of that anymore, and not even even odds.

Letting these own words of mine impact me, feeling them fully, is hard. Scary. Full of omen and therefore ominous.

Maybe they are feeling the same, and that’s why the calls end quickly.

In the aftermath, I go out into the town. I study the burned out or simply abandoned motels. I visit the single overcrowded understocked and unhappy grocery, where people don’t seem to get social distancing, or even masks sometimes.

After, I come home to the piles of detritus and I think–there’s no real need for a shed anymore. It would have been nice, to seal away the greater part of the mess for later. But the damage is done. I’d rather have my deposit back, and one less bill, and a laser focus on exactly one job, called Water.

Water this place.

Dig up the bad line with a Ditch Witch like your Mama said.

That is the way forward.