The day arrived of Joan's memorial. I woke up early, around 6 my time. Shuffled around the house for awhile, watched Maz give her cats both medicine, then feed them separate food, then go outside and feed the stray kitty who lives under the apartment building next to the laundry room. She feeds him every day, and every day he hisses at her.
She reads the paper, I write in here, then we figure it's time to go to the store and buy food. When I ask Maz what she wants, it's Entemann's. Funny, cause it's not what I would have said, but suddenly it's the only thing I want.
It's comfort food. We bought two kinds.
A couple of weeks ago, one of my other closest friends knew I was sick with a summer cold, and showed up at my house, with, yes, Entemann's. Nothing like a giant sugary pillow-soft cream cheese stuffed danish to shove the blues back down there where you won't feel them anymore.
After the danish parade, however, I realized, heart revving, that I had only half an hour to get ready for the service. I rushed around, and thoughts of who I might see, what I might feel, who I was then...all of it flooded in. A little overwhelming.
I got made up, ditched the blouse that made me feel like an old lady, put on perfume, and last but not least, as we headed out the door, in what I'm not embarrassed to describe as a state of mild panic, I ate a Klonopin right out of Maz's hand. I felt like one of her cats.
At the service, two people did a scene, holding those small Sam French scripts, from "Same Time Next Year", a sweet melancholy play. And eight times ( I counted), eight times in the scene, the word Comfort was used.
I guess I wasn't the only one who needed it that day.