sick and tired...literally

I am sick. Well, on the mend.
The fever of Tuesday and Wednesday is gone, but the cough is persistent. I am thankful that I don't have a sore throat, as nothing vexes me more when I am sick than a sore throat, but this cough is giving me a headache. It is one of those really hard coughs that makes your whole body just ache.
Ugh.

This morning as I was leaving for work my car got stuck in a rut full of snow at the end of my driveway and there is decided to stay: half in my driveway, half in the street. People drove by and stared, probably marveling at my feat. I imagined neighbors peeking out their windows and saying, "Ehh?"

I had to have my car pulled out by a towing company; the same company who came and pulled me out when I slid off my driveway about a month ago. The same driver in fact who looked at me and said, "I've been here before, not too long ago, haven't I?"

Yep, one of those days.

I had Baby Storytime this morning and I showed up just as it was supposed to start and had to hurry to get things rolling a few minutes late. All the moms were tre cool about it, and asked after my car. It was then that I had to pause and appreciate the coolness of the parents in this group. Today after storytime they decided that we should start an email mailing list for all of them so they can network more. Very cool.

That was the highlight of my day.
Now I am going home to rest some more.
This week has sucked...a little. Weeks like these make me feel the mean reds...just a little. And some conversations with a friend have led me to a lot of thinking. Needed to clear my head with some poetry.
Found this poem.
It is sad and contemplative and so many things.
I like it.
Hope you do to.

Limits
Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.

~ Jorge Luis Borges