Still sick! Ok, that’s true, but it’s also true that I feel much better than I’ve been feeling the last few days, so that’s something. I am discovering anew that my body doesn’t respond to cold medicine. I forget this after I recover from every cold, and when a new cold comes around I stock up on meds … only to find that they have no effect. My body seems to have this wacky notion that colds should just be allowed to burn through, that they shouldn’t respond to any amount or configuration of alien substances like Tylenol Cold, or Gypsy Cold Care tea, or oregano oil, or Theraflu, or Buckley’s. (Shouldn’t it be illegal for Buckley’s to taste as bad as it does? I would bet that most people get over their colds just so they don’t ever have to take it again!) I don’t like knowing this about myself, this totally misplaced willfulness. I mean, there’s a time and a place for putting your foot down, drawing a line in the sand and all that … response to cold medicine shouldn’t be that place.
Yes, I’m rambling. On Friday I had my first Spanish class in weeks. Gustavo noticed the change in my voice immediately, and we talked about my cold. He recommended I take the wonderful medicine that he takes when he’s sick. Ok, that’s nice. But, well, Gustavo is in Guatemala. It’s unlikely that I’ll have ready access to his cold medicine. I promised to look for it at the drug store, but I’ve been so not well all weekend, I never made it to the drug store. Maybe I’ll look for it tomorrow. Maybe it will turn out to be the first (and only) medicine to actually affect my cold.
And typing that title made me think of “Mending Wall,” one of the first grown up poems I ever memorized. It was quite the odd mix of poems I chose to memorize, now that I think of it. To the Frost poem I added Poe’s “Annabelle Lee,” Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn” and, of course, a couple of Shakespeare sonnets. My list would be so different today! Here’s the last bit of the Frost:
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”