The sound of things breaking should become the background music for my life, or perhaps the music of my theme song. This morning, another cup. Yesterday, my glasses. The day before, the mirror on my hall closet. All of that would be the melody, of course, The tune would be the everpresent baseline of walls and door frames crunching from low-speed wheelchair impact. This is why I can't have nice things anymore.
Yesterday; or was it the day before, I'm losing all sense of time and space; I dropped my glasses then drove over them as I was attempting to retreat from their potential location. It's kind of like the old days when someone dropped a contact lens, one of the old, hard types. You would scream for everyone to stand still, only to hear the crunch a couple of feet to your left. Regardless, I broke my glasses.
At first it didn't seem unlivable. I could still see through the main portion of the glasses, the glass itself seemingly still adhered to itself. The frames didn't seem too much bent out of shape. Then came the moment when I went to wipe them, to clean them with my eyeglass cloth. I discovered that what once seemed firmly in place was merely a charade, a sleight of hand, a mocking of my hopes and desires. The lens came out in two pieces.
I gathered together what craft tools I could reach, that being a glue gun. Unfortunately this glue does not seem to want to hold to glass, at least not securely, certainly not enough to repair the lens. The glue I need is up on my shelf, far too high for me to reach. It's a theme, perhaps the maudlin lyrics of my them song, that most of what I need is too high, or too low, or too far for me to reach.
This morning came. I arose with frames in one hand and lens in the other. After all my Monday routine, shorn of eyewear, I carried my poor, damaged pieces gently to the kitchen table. Sandra, my Monday HCA, made sandwiches for me, maintaining a tradition Kathy had begun many moons past. I was waiting, wanting her to finish before I attempted assembling, and potentially re-gluing my glasses.
It was coffee time. Sandra had the Keurig warmed up. She was busy with her task so I figured I would get my own coffee cup. I opened the cupboard door. Keeping cups on the counter for myself is a long lost battle with my HCA's, there having been so many new ones that telling them, then having them forget, then telling them again only to have them forget again, has worn me to a nub. The cup, in the cupboard, looked eminently reachable with my grabby stick. I grabbed, only to discover that what I thought was the handle wasn't. The cup came crashing down.
I still haven't had my coffee.
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