Easy is a strange, hard word. Walking from living room to dining room to kitchen to bedroom. Slippered feet, 16 degrees, 8 degree wind chill. A salmon flavored cat food pebble sticks in a leather groove on the bottom of my foot. Shriveled leaves fall from a chrysanthemum by a cold southern exposure. Catnip is strewn about the bed cover; Mr. Stripeypants circles the spot, then dives in for the scent.
The cat is high. The sheets are clean, the bed is made. Easy living.
I pop the top on a Cherry Zero and the tab doesn’t flick. Instead the pressure builds, not an easy landing. I place the aluminum can in the coffee stained sink and grab another. Liz tells me a classmate, Kindra, was eager to get home from her Psychology and Religion class the other night because she was having an Easy-Lift La-Z-Boy rocker recliner delivered.
I remember the days. In the early eighties I had a second-hand, floral covered La-Z-Boy rocker in Montana. My butt was glued to the chair. I’d write chicken scratch in my journal or stare out the window or sit by the electric heater, rock, rock, rocking my life away.
These days La-Z-Boys are built right into the structure of corduroy, Scotchgarded, wrap around couches in front of 60 inch Sony flat screens. Simple life.
Simple does not mean easy.
Monday, February 12th, 2007