I should be packing my toothbrush and checking that le chat Gris 's dish is filled with tasty bits of fish next to his pan of clear water. I should be offering a deep watering to the dahlias and to the newly planted hostas under the willow tree. Then, I should double-check the timing on the automatic watering system, and that the back door is locked. I should turn off the answering machine. In my shoulder bag, I should drop my rarely used cell phone along with my camera and spare batteries; check that the printed sheet with my confirmation number is readily available. Oh, I almost forgot, sunscreen in a sealed bag for that California sunshine. I should be humming, smiling, thinking of hugs and kisses and fresh-faced granddaughters, of celebrating their parents' respective birthdays, all of us together.
The refrigerator should be near empty, bread and milk in the freezer for toast and tea when I return. The house should be picked up and my bed made with fresh sheets, a clean nightgown under the pillow. And I should remember to empty the vases for nothing is sadder than to be greeted home by desiccated flowers. I should reconsider which books I am taking along on the plane; no, I shouldn't, I have already deliberated long enough in front of the TBR stack. For my good neighbor, I should be writing down the contact phone numbers in case the house burns down or le chat Gris needs a vet. Finally, I should call the company with the nice drivers, wheel my bag outside, lock the front door and wait on the porch. Once in the cab, I would smile and say, "To the airport, please!"
But sciatica has struck and I am grounded for the duration.
CB plays my mood.