Sleep often eludes me.  Last night, I lay for hours resisting tears with my shuddery legs ignoring every exhortation to quiet.  Regret for a late-evening sugary snack clenched my shoulders.  Whether that half-cup of granola really caused the distress or not, I blamed myself.  The endless litany reverberated in the darkness.  My mistakes haunted me: eating too late, reading too long, making each and every blunder that brought me to the long stretch of wakefulness with cold air penetrating my nerve-endings.  

I headed into Isleton too early.  I forewent my usual scrambled eggs, hoping that the coffee shop ladies would come through with my little sandwich at lunch time.  Preparations for the weekend’s street festival engrossed me.  Off and on throughout the day my body rebelled.  My legs buckled.  My knees gave way.  Fatigue settled in my belly and curdled even the perfectly prepared tiny sandwich that I usually love.  I tried to persevere.  I stayed silent when I might have snapped.  I smiled when I wanted to cry.  I shook hands with a couple of guys who made our tiny town one stop on a paddle-board expedition from Sacramento to San Francisco.  I photographed a newly engaged couple, the woman wearing a sunhat crocheted by one of our vendors.  Her radiance almost salvaged my mood.

One of my creative cohorts at the shop started the day by spending two hours helping me rearrange.  Another ended the day by hanging a curtain for me.  Yet I still crossed the bridge on my way to the grocery store with bleary eyes and a sagging heart.  I’m always tired but today’s level of exhaustion overwhelmed me.  My quick spin up and down the aisles could have been painless, except that the store insists on keeping small specialty items on the top shelf.  With no floor clerks, far away from the cashstand, I inched my hand upward while trying to remain on my feet.  Unfortunately the package smacked my face.  One edge of a crooked tooth bit into the inside of my upper lip.

As I jostled my purchases onto the conveyer belt, I tried to tell the clerk about my accident.  Six years of shopping in a store that ignores the needs of disabled persons fought my urge for calm.  The lady responded by blaming me.  “You should have gotten help,” she scolded.  My internal struggle roiled.  I tried to tell her that I should not have to come all the way back to the front of the store when a better system of shelving would put those small items within easy reach.  She rolled her eyes, shrugged, and started talking to the woman behind me.   I called to her attention that I had not finished talking.  She blamed me again, saying that she had been trying to sort out where my order ended and that I should have been more patient.  She might have been right, but I felt my mood darken.

I left the store feeling desolate.  Weary and wanting to be home, I stopped and stared in dismay at the long line of vehicles at a standstill on the road.  The Rio Vista bridge had been lifted for a passing boat.  I told myself it would not be long and started to pack the groceries in my vehicle. I only turned my back for a second, but that moment claimed my cart. I turned and watched it roll towards the exit.  Now I blamed myself.  Had I not mentioned the assaultive ice cream, the cashier might have offered help with my bags.  Perhaps I would even have gotten on the road before the traffic jam.

The buggy slowly rolled towards a  truck.  I watched with open mouth as it swerved at the last moment, avoiding the truck and catching in the depressed edge of the driveway.  I started forward, urging my trembling legs to keep walking, to hold, to endure.  

The driver’s side of the vehicle opened and a tall man loped around the front and snagged my cart.  He wheeled it around and brought it toward me.  Apologies gushed from my mouth.  I could have hit your nice truck, I practically sobbed.  He steadied the cart and reach to shake my head.  It’s just material goods, he assured me.  Just material goods.  No worries.  He kept my hand in his for a moment and looked into my eyes to let me feel his sincerity.  He told me that he was glad he met me.  He resumed the wheel of his vehicle just as the line on Highway 12 started to move.  I got into my own car, started the motor, and moved behind my inadvertent savior.  I took one look at his bumper and felt my heart open.  Of course, I murmured.  Why am I even surprised?

It’s the fourteenth day of the one-hundred and twenty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

In Memory

Stephen Patrick Corley

12/25/59 – 06/14/97

Fare Thee Well – I love you more than words can tell.