Today has been strange. Really, I did nothing. The time passed. I slept in the afternoon. I woke up at five, groggy. I ate some dinner, but I have felt strangely uninterested in food today. I feel on the verge of some kind of vague illness. I cough and my chest hurts. My knee, the right one, is particularly bad after my near-fall on the cobblestoned street yesterday. I had an urge to go to Manhattan, but opted out because the trains are so messed up on weekends these days that going anywhere turns into an ordeal, and I could not move the car from its parking space because they are ripping up the streets everywhere and parking is even more at a minimum than usual.
The strange warm weather tires me out. I feel restless and I need a break. Thanksgiving is coming soon. A tortured holiday for me, because of history. It was Thanksgiving of 1986 when we learned that my mother was terminally ill. Ever since then, I have sort of hated Thanksgiving.
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