I have spent most of my life debating whether or not to promise something; what to do when I had; and straining to fulfill my commitments.  Time gets squandered with regret at broken promises.

My son used to say, “A promise is a promise, Mom, and you promised.”  I’d stare out the window, avoiding the fire in his eyes.  He’d stamp his black cowboy boots and shake his blonde, straight head of hair.  Fatigue caused me to sag; bad health took away my earning power; the responsibility of single-parenting overwhelmed me.

I’d mutter to myself, “You can have your own kid, your own house, or your own business.  But not all three.”

I wanted so much to please people, to enrich their lives.  Any one who strayed into my line of sight got fed, housed, and loved.  From a teenage girl named Telecia with her pregnant belly, to anybody’s kid, to any sad sack whose crooked smile tugged my heart strings.  Let me help; here, I’ll do it; what do you need, come on over; you hungry?

Yet I’ve always felt that so many did so much for me.  What pittance I could do for others seemed insignificant.  So the dance continued.  Weaving in and out of each other’s lives.  I hate worst of all when I miss a step, skip a beat; I detest the stumble, when I leave my partner reaching for my fumbling hand.

I feel as though I’ve piles and piles of promises that I’ve not fulfilled over the years.  Crazy ways I’ve lived that caused me to let so many people down.  I keep running, turning corners, catching a glimpse of my destination ahead.  It never nears.  I have those miles to go; I have those promises to keep.  I keep moving.  Keep putting my best foot forward.  Still not sure which foot that is.

It’s the fourth day of the twenty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining.  I am tired. I seemed to have lost my way, today, this evening, here in the quiet dark hours.   Still, my life continues.