Not one of those days

"It's a quiet neighborhood," Marian observed.
The rain had stopped. We were sitting on the front porch with our light supper. Ours had been a full day of visitors at home, a trip to Phillipston for a dose of small-town democracy, a return home to sign some important papers, a gift of a casserole from a kind neighbor, and then a good cry triggered by pictures and songs.
But, now it was quiet. The heavy rain of mid-day had reduced the temperature by 20 degrees from the days before. Not much air was moving and it was still humid, so you couldn't always tell if it was cool yet or not.
Inside the house, the infrastructure is in rebellion. The burner on our furnace has little puffs of electrical smoke. (I've turned off the power to the burner and will call for repairs in the morning.) The dehumidifier growls, but doesn't run. One of the toilets is decidedly unenthusiastic about fulfilling its purpose.
A neighbor with her small dog, Hyacinth, came up to the porch and chatted for a bit. We sit on the front porch whenever we can, just for this reason. Marley wasn't a gracious host to Hyacinth; he had a few sharp words to her, but his tail was wagging.
In the morning, a visiting nurse will, well, visit. We've a lot to understand about how to care for our housemate (and ourselves). Next week, we'll talk with doctors of one type and another, move more furniture, learn about insurances and pensions, learn more about what's safe, what's respectful.
When we say, "It's been one of those days," we refer to a type of day that's happened before. This one that we've just finished up, though, isn't like others that we've known. This is not unique; we know that. Plenty of families perform miracles every day. We've a lot to learn. We'll find something that we'll call ordinary again and maybe it'll look like this.
In the meantime, we can enjoy the quiet.