Once again I see life’s ironies.  I worked my fingers to the bone this week, and ended the week with a few hours to spend with my bff Penny.  We met up at Westport coffee house and we shared a good cup of coffee and a nice natter.  I nipped into the ladies’ room and BAM, a slam of the door and now my wrist is in a brace and my fingers just sort of nip at the keys, trying to type without moving my braced wrist.

Ah, she says:  No, I’m not complaining!  I’m thinking of the irony.  A writer limited in the speed of her typing by a chance encounter with a door that weighs more than I do!  A woman who foreswore the use of prescription narcotics now wondering if any linger in the bottom of her old handbags!  Funny, no?

The gals at WCH got me two bags of ice which curbed the swelling.  Penny carried my computer bag (slash) handbag to the car, and my suite-mate Matthew carried the flowers for Joanna’s resting place to the car.  Now I’m home, thinking that I might find a legal pad and a pen with which to write the morning musings, but then, I’ve no scanner so I’d have to keep them to myself!  No, I’ll rest the wrist and gently hammer the blog entry out in the morning.  Recent photos of my first husband, his lovely wife Ruth, and his three (three! Three, Chester!) — daughters reuniting in Colorado have served to draw me back to the long ago days, when Tshandra, my wild lovely stepdaughter and Sarah, my dreamy niece, spent a summer with us in the wilds of Arkansas.

I’m musing already, and the irony of it all?  As I drift backwards in time, I am no longer thinking of the pain in my wrist, or the fatigue in my legs, or the virus in my cerebellum.  I’m thinking, instead, of the places where I’ve gone and the people who journeyed with me.

I’m taking the long road home.