Point of View: Kale, and Farewell
Speaking of having one’s wits about one, I, on my return home the other day from a hectic day of doing nothing, worrying as I was about what I would possibly write about that week — summer largely being what a sportswriter’s imagination says it is — I called out, “Have you seen my wits, Mary?”
“Think — where were you when you last had them about you?”
“I’m not sure. . . . I could swear I had them about me when I was in the outdoor shower this morning.”
“Well, look there then.”
“. . . I was looking up through the trees at the blue sky. . . . Ah, here they are! Wait a minute, I’ll gather them about me to see if they still work. . . . Summer is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake! Do you find that sufficiently witty?”
“Wit’ll do.”
“If you can keep your meds while all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you. . . .”
“Please.”
“Once more unto Citarella, dear friend, once more . . . stiffen the sinews, set the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wide. . . .”
“Lay it on, Macduff.”
“Bring me no more private callers. Let them fly all. Till the Walking Dunes come to Newtown Lane I cannot taint with fear. . . . I have supped full with horoscopes. . . . Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty place from day to day to the last tweet of recorded time. It is a tale told by a cidiot, full of surround sound and chicken curry, signifying nothing. . . .”
“. . . Nothing much to write about, that is.”
“Something will turn up, something will turn up. . . . Well, I’m off.”
“You have your wits about you?”
“I do. Thanks to you.”
“Well, drive safely then. Don’t forget the kale, and farewell.”