While mowing yesterday afternoon I turned the second to last corner, a wind blew out of the east,
the turkeys gobbled from the creek bank, and I turned my head, all this at just the right juxtaposition and debris flew behind my glasses and into my searching, wide open eyes. I have been missing the turkey clan that wanders the creek and was happy to hear their voices, but ouch!
Full stop! (as they always said in the WWII submarine movies.
I immediately heard several different and distinct voices in my head:
1. My mom: Don't rub your eye!
2. Dad: Pull your top eyelid down and it will clear itself.
3. Gary England: Shatterproof goggles, people. This is first day stuff.
For the record, it did not clear itself. I came inside and stuck my head in a sink full of water, swishing around, open-eyed, hoping to wash something out. No luck. I poured in the liquid tears throughout the evening, spent some time on the patio, typing a poem with that eye closed and burning, feeling somewhat like a pirate without a patch. (That 'don't rub your eye' thing is more difficult than you would think.)
More eye drops.
Warm clothes held to the eye.
Surrender to bed with Ibuprofen as my companion.
Nightmares of losing my grandkids at a theme park. (What?)
Nightmares of sliding down a zip-line and falling through the canopy of the forest. (Really?)
In order to let dreams pass, I walked to and opened the sliding door to look at the stars and saw Mr. Armadillo (he who will soon depart this life) hunched there on the patio boards looking up at me. (You can run, but you can not hide, sir.) I know they can't see squat, so he must have felt the door opening.
Slept again until the Cardinal began waking the winged horde for Morning Sing.
The eye is swollen a bit but the pain is better this morning.
More not rubbing the eye.
Time will tell.
Goggles. Aye, aye, Sir.
Shutting that barn door now. No sign of the horse.