A pox upon our household (and other viruses)
In which we are laid low by a series of brutal illnesses, and I somehow manage to write a scrappy poem about strawberries.
Well, what an absolute howler of a fortnight we’ve had.
Was it a fortnight? Or was it an eternity of fever-fuelled nightmares; foreboding spots creeping up chubby wrists; tear-seasoned lunchtimes and shattered work schedules?
The final week of September was going to be The Week. The Week we bumped Arthur’s nursery hours up to three full days, and I’d be able to work and write during sane, daytime hours. I crawled towards The Week until it lay just a mere scrabble from my burned-out grasp, promising my clients the world as I went. I scribbled ideas for poems and Substacks. I planned the first few editions of Litbits (a reading club I’m working on — more on that another time). I was going to be so available, so flexible, the latest denizen in a hyper productive utopia.
I was ready.
So, of course, when I got Arthur up on the Monday morning he’d broken out in spots. The autumn breeze rustled my hysterical laughter through the browning, late-September leaves.
Arthur handled chickenpox like a trooper, struggling mostly at night and while he was eating; I’d pluck him, sobbing, from his highchair and plop him on my knee, where he’d sit contentedly nibbling pillowy naan bread and smushed up curry, his feathery soft, orange hair tickling my chin. But once we’d muddled our way through, limped into another week, and managed a couple of days’ work: a tummy bug. And when we finally hauled ourselves, battered and bruised, into the weekend: Alex and I caught it too.
As I say. It’s been a couple of weeks. This was my house on a good day:
But! I’m alive. We’re alive! And what a gorgeous time of year it is to be alive. It’s so beautiful, out there. The beans, strawberries, raspberries and squash are wearing out, but haven’t quite given up the ghost (sounds like someone I know, har har). The dahlias and cosmos are still putting a brave face on, beaming hopeful blooms up, up and away above their neighbours’ crisping leaves, and the weakening morning sunshine casts a cool, soft glow over everything. I can’t get enough of it. I keep taking photos of really boring things in the light, convinced they look utterly stunning.
In fact, by squinting at my frenzied notes (terrible handwriting plus my current near-exhaustion make them borderline illegible), I can see on the 2nd of October I apparently felt sufficiently inspired to jot down a quick prose poem about the final strawberries. So, here it is — only lightly edited, as I’m finishing up this post after a full day of mothering an extremely fast-crawling 11-month-old. Zzzzz.
Enjoy. And may you, also, find the summer’s last good strawberry. Bye!
The strawberry thief
During two sweat-slicked weeks of late summer, he uncovers a secret: strawberries don’t live in the fridge, to be eked out in portions, sliced into careful, baby-sized halves. They’re out there — dangling ripe over the side of the rusted wheelbarrow. Or unripe; to him it’s all the same, and the practised pincer pinches green as well as red.
Over the days that follow, he crawls daily onto the sun-warmed patio and down the steps, a wobbling table, one hand stretched and searching, one foot raised — precarious, determined — as he heads back to the fruitful barrow. When it rains (and oh, this summer, it rains) he presses a wistful forehead against the weeping glass; thwarted.
One early autumn afternoon, as he sleeps, I spot a last gasp — a single, rosy red strawberry, plump and perfect as a cartoon heart, tempting as a lie. I carry it indoors in cupped hands, and place it on the table like a tribute at an altar.
He’s waited weeks — but it won’t wait long. By the time he wakes, it’s gone.
AHH! You are the strawberry ! Can't fault you! 🍓