When my limes ripened, my friends Eric and Shari came for Margaritas. They taught me how to blend them, something that I had never done. Our conversation reached far, as we nibbled cashew cheese and home-made guacamole.
Shari and Eric revved the engine on their RV and moseyed on down the highway last weekend. That’s how it works here. Some folks stay for months on end; others for a few weeks; and some, for long enough to stake a claim to the hearts of those whom they meet. I held their small vehicles hostage for a day but I could not tether them.
I’m feeling every inch of my life today. My right hip aches where an Oldsmobile parked itself forty-five years ago. The face of the firefighter who held my hand as his cohort fired the torch to cut away the crushed metal rises in my mind with each twinge. I can catalog the days of my life in injuries: My broken hand, my wrenched elbow, the splintered arch of my foot, my crushed knee, a snapped ankle, the gash in my leg from a shattered light dome. One child, three marriages, four states, six cities, working on seven decades.
The sun rises here with unbearable beauty. The birds sweep across the horizon in patterns which must make sense to them. Soon the cranes will arrive, and the geese, and the trumpet swans. It’s getting on for Christmas. The new year crowds the calendar. I no longer have any sense of connection to the circumstances which motivated this blog. But I keep moving.
It’s the third day of the sixtieth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.