A rumble that could have been thunder slid through the room as my eyes adjusted to the murky light.  Feet to the floor; stumble down the stairs; call to the dog; swing open the back door.

My routine halts as I see the sky to my left, to the north.  I stand bare-footed, wearing my night clothes, eyes turned upward, skin cooled by the morning air.  My heart flutters; I realize that I’ve been holding my breath.   For a few moments more I stand motionless on the threshold.  When I have seen all that I can of the morning sky, I turn and go inside to start the coffee.

The radio tells me of grief and disaster.  I shut its blare and go into the sitting room to exercise.  My muscles strain in time to some forgotten melody.   My pulse pounds.  I finally swing back to solid ground and lift the crystal mug to take a swig of coffee.  The shuddering in my legs tells me that I’ve done enough.  But I have no complaints today.  I’ve taken stock.  I’ll live.

Last night when I came out from a friend’s house, I found a scthought the newly-repaired bumper of the Prius.  I squatted down to gauge the damage.  My forehead sagged against the fender.  I thought I had left plenty of room for the car parked behind me, but not enough, it seems.  The sigh which coursed through my body could be considered a complaint.  I took my time recovering from my disappointment, then pushed my bag back up on my shoulder, got into my little car, and slowly drove back home.

It’s the eighteenth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.   My life continues.  I think I know where I am going.   I take my time.