7 p.m.

Just out of a warm bath, chest slathered with Vick’s Vapour Rub underneath a longsleeved, turtlenecked flannel lounger. Hot lemon water with cayenne pepper next to me; a roll of toilet paper nearby to staunch the flow of snot; oh yeah, I’m a fashion plate today. Before leaving for to the bachelor neighbour’s “to do some business” and after making and serving toasted tomato sandwiches to Don and I for supper, Farmbeau said I’m warm and should take a couple of Tylenols. I’ll do that too, shortly, when I go downstairs to install myself in front of the woodstove, where my sweetheart left a cosy fire burning.

Funny how old feelings come around
You think they’re gone, but oh no
They’ve just gone underground
- Joni Mitchell, Blue Motel Room

Snatches of this song from the Hejira album kept coming to me yesterday as we drove along toward Saskatoon, me honking at the nose constantly and feeling like shit.

We drove home in the dark last night, beneath northern lights and scattered stars. Don sat on my right, snuggled up and laying his head on my shoulder. Farmbeau, driving, held my hand, my leg. How nice it is, I thought, to be here together with these two. How warm and wonderful it is.