This morning, Mom drove me to my place and we harvested the tomato crop and cleaned out the fridge. I figured cleaning out the fridge would entail throwing out the potentially icky bits and leaving it at that. Mom's definition involved wiping down the shelves and absconding with the perishables that were still good. While we were there, I gathered up some things like a pair of loose pants to do physical therapy in, a couple of magazines to read, and my flower supplies.
When I got home, I cleared off the table, spread out my pens and my index cards, and picked up where I'd left off. I fired up an episode of Bill Corbett's Funhouse and went through the rituals--the grass, the stems, the petals outlined, the leaves, the petals filled in, the signature on the front, the number, the date, the signature on the back, the hashtag, the sticker, the time, and the tiny dot on the grid to mark progress.
I drew as if nothing traumatic had happened. I needed no coaxing or reassurance. I simply did what must be done to progress this project of mine.
It felt good to finish. I look forward to doing more tomorrow.
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