Half Heaven

Last night I wandered – not so much aimlessly as stupidly – over the close-by streets and sidewalks of San Marcos from where the kids live. The San Marcos kids. In search of a wide-ruled, 70-page notebook in which to write my three Morning Pages. In search of a large to-go cup of coffee which I’d leave tucked away on their kitchen counter, ready for the microwave this morning.
The routine – 4:35 alarm, bathroom, pray, meditate, coffee, read and/or jot in stenos. Write the Pages. This morning here in San Marcos, an impromptu – no blanket, no toothbrush, no nothing – overnight in the kids’ spare room, Monday the one night it’s free of support person occupancy. So as to offer me escape from the fear and real danger of driving from San Diego to this very apartment complex in the teeth of a raging wind and rainstorm, with by noon yesterday apocalyptic warnings of flash floods, flying objects, deadly rip-tides, airport delays and closure, high surf, wind advisories, marine gale warnings, end of the world as we know it.
In other words, I spent the night under a thin blanket and towels from my car so as to be sure to be here for my Tuesday ‘shift’ today.
California doesn’t do anything small.
Once, upon a time, I was retired. Once I was married. Once I roamed the rooms of a large home, and drove to coffee shops, and spent hours.
Today I’m mostly alone and I get twice-a-month payroll statements. I sort of couch surf with the San Marcos kids and I wander their neighborhood in the dark like some half-human out of a B horror movie.
And yet, I still enjoyed nuked coffee a while ago. Still here to enjoy it.