A woman walked into court today whom I should have known.  She greeted me by name but I could not have told you who she was.  Fortunately, she started speaking to me of the case on which I was appearing and I could deduce.  I let out my breath in a long quiet shudder.

Another lawyer slipped in the door, glancing towards the bench to see if proceedings had commenced.  She set her bag down and spared me a small smile from under silvery blonde hair.  I squinted; but I pulled her name from some recess in which a face with brown hair appeared above it.

Several times today my tongue tripped over words.  The syllables scrambled to properly sequence themselves.  I found myself sitting at my desk baffled by the blurred words on my screen.  By 4:30, my eyes could barely discern a line of type but I had drafted more in one day than I often do in three.  I had nothing left.  I gathered the items which I carry back and forth each day and dragged myself to the car to start for home.

En route, my phone rang and I began a conversation with a friend about our respective days, the art of small talk, popular culture, and the bases of personal human connectivity.  By the time the conversation drew to a close I found myself standing in front of my stove, watching water boil, admitting, outloud, on the phone, to my friend, that I have a talent for helping people when they turn to me.

In the sudden silence following our goodbyes, I  stared at my discarded cell phone sitting on the counter.  I thought:  What does that mean — a talent for helping people?  From the far end of my house I gazed straight through to the living room, seeing the mismatched pillows on the couch, the scattering of books on the table, and the unfinished knitting project by the motionless rocking chair.

It’s more of a gift, really, I told myself.  A gift.  Sure, let’s go with that.

After a few minutes, I turned back to the making of my supper, in the quiet of my kitchen, as the warm March afternoon settled into evening.