The woman walking to my door had a framed photo tucked under one arm and held a vase of flowers in her other hand. Momentary confusion flowed. A UPS truck lurched past the house at the exact moment that I stepped onto the porch and saw the flowers preceding Samantha Bessent as she traversed my walk. For a spectacular second, I thought a UPS driver had brought the flowers, the photo, and Samantha.
Perhaps I drink too much coffee or too little.
The truck trundled down Holmes Street, my vision cleared, and Samantha called my name. Here’s my picture for the auction, she said. I brought you flowers because I grow them.
My bones scream this morning; my joints groan; the ringing in my ears crashes against my psyche. But on my buffet sits a delicate bouquet, which a sweet woman whom I do not know half-well enough carried in her car as she dashed around on a Saturday morning getting her crew and supplies for her day’s work.
Moments such as these wrap themselves around my small tired body, joining with the fibers of my being, helping me continue my quest towards joyfulness.