We watched the Super Moon arise over Bordeaux this evening. I remember when I was here last year in late March. Such a different city, people filling the tiny narrow streets deep in the city centre, lights strung between the houses, bars and music, students everywhere. Today as I walked all the doors were closed, the shops shuttered, the odd person carrying a baguette peeping out of its paper wrapping. We're going to do a full moon ceremony, the girls and I, with gratitude and a visualisation of us getting home safely.
My daughter, if I had to identify her as a Quarantine bird ,would be the Bower Bird - 'Starts a home renovation project; Prepper; Thinking about building a bunker.' This is the daughter in a nutshell. When we're finally released from our two weeks quarantine (13 nights to be precise the daughter has found out; we breathe a collective sigh of relief, that extra night could be detrimental to our mental health), she is planning to rearrange her bedroom and she is plotting a takeover bid on half of my art room. She has also planned to finish University sooner rather than later has raised her spirits slightly. She's trying to cheer us up. I don't like her chances but I'm grateful for her positive attitude. I remember I had it once, not so long ago. A lifetime of making sure everyone else was buoyed up on my false enthusiasm has left me a bit frayed around the edges. I hand the baton over to the daughter.
We watch the last episode of Kath & Kim over dinner and wait for the moon to rise. As we do, I come unstuck having just read of someone in the early forties, dying within a day of arriving at the hospital. Why do I do this to myself? Normally I'm a resolute, let's get on with it sort of person. She's left the building. Let's hope she returns. Meanwhile I painted an eggplant.
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