The frigid air descends on Kansas City. This morning my body fell into the empty space above the front steps. I half-twisted en route to the leaves collected there, landing sideways as I’ve been taught. I broke nothing but my stride, bruised little more than my ego. I caught the eyes of a school bus driver as I fell but drove he on, down the road, hell-bent for my son’s alma mater no doubt, with kids flailing on the seats, clamoring to be heard above the roar of his engine.
My neighbors Chris and Susan lifted me from the ground. Their eyes held only concern; no pity laced their glances, not even those which they exchanged over my prone body as they gauged the angle by which they would hoist my butt from the pavement. I assumed that dainty mixture of chagrin and appreciation with which all single ladies in need of assistance must reward their saviors. They dusted off the crunchy foliage and sent me down the driveway with assurances that they would rake the lot on Saturday.
I told my secretary Miranda this story after court. She winced at the thought of my possible injury, but I dismissed her worry and switched the conversation to the vandalism of my Rainbow flag and purple mums. I made no complaint. I just reported what had occurred. I’ll take some pills tonight and in the morning, I’ll have forgotten the incident almost entirely.
It’s night-time on the eighteenth day of the thirty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
Reluctance
BY ROBERT FROST
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question ‘Whither?’
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
