Saturday Morning 4th April 2020

A Saturday morning 9.30

Saturday morning, sun on my back from nape down, classical oboe and cello background to the cooing of doves and chirping of hummingbirds, I look out over the primroses, or so I think my mother called them, having climbed all over the “brosh” covering almost the one side– pale yellow, catching the warmth and glow of the sun, just like me.

I love that yellow. Music continues to wash all over me and sun continues to warm – now the back of my head. Neighbors in pajamas emerge and chat to neighbors downstairs. Their dog, as cute and lovable as any dog can possibly be, wonders over lapping up some of the puddles of water that have remained after I watered the plants – the plants I come out every morning to see, and mostly to shake and then smell – mint, oregano, thyme, celery, rosemary, spring onion – and to see if any of the flowers have emerged in any form from their green state.

The daisies in the pot are in competition with the primroses. They are the same beautiful pale yellow and are full in flower now, bursting out of the pot proudly and strong. I love those; they have been around a long time, flowering loyally on and off for years – reliable as a rock. I know that when the branches seem dead and dry, there is no question that they will sprout green leaves, fill the pot, and then bud, and then, flower after flower, day after day they will call my attention to say: we are all here again! Music now reaching finale-type crescendos with violins and the brass reaching a peak.

You can imagine the conductor, baton in hand, swaying this way and that as he brings in the sounds just where he wants them…and now…now so delicately gentle like the trickle of a stream glistening in the sun. He has the world in his hand. Gentle breeze, just slightly cooled – again gentle water in a stream - chills my front and the tips of my ears.

Taz saunters over to do what I do, to sniff the plants and chew on his favorites and then settle somewhere secluded to watch the birds – making little meowing sounds when they get too close. I would love to be able to describe his every movement as I watch him in awe and affection, open and close his eyes, squint, wiggle his whiskers in the air and lick his paw. Amateurish, I know, but what I can do, he is too complex for my skills. Oh lord, now as a kitten would do, he is trying to untie a piece of string used to keep the small outside plastic cupboard closed! Sitting on top with half his body almost falling over he tugs with this paws and his teeth but keeps precarious balance and then like a baby, loses concentration and interest as if the string had never been there, and gazes into the distance getting ready for sleep, but a sudden chirp from afar and a flutter of wings picks up his one ear as he cocks his head to the side, and then relaxes.

Music is now off. I hear every sound. Muffled voices, kids saying “Abba aval ma?”, the whoosh of cars from Derech Hevron, the quickened footsteps of someone jogging, and always the sound of birds. Sun has moved. No longer warming my back.

Time to go inside. 11.00 am

Photos and paintings by Jack Pillemer

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