When Brenda saunters up the stairs of the porch, I’m sitting in the dark living room with the flashlight app of my cell phone trained at the front door.  Brian has the electricity off while he wires the lights in the upstairs bathroom.  I’ve been talking to Paula K-V and watching for Brenda.

She helps me get into my sweater, then we crunch our way down the driveway through the spectacular blanket of dying leaves.  Our conversation makes the short drive to the grocery store seem even quicker.  Once we get there, Brenda commandeers a cart and strolls  along beside while I exclaim over avocados, oranges and yogurt.  I’ve not had groceries all week and plain white rice has lost its charm.

Back at the Holmes house, Brenda unloads, then I carefully back the Prius into the street to drive her to her own house.  She speculates about whether her cat has lost faith in her return.  We say goodnight, then I drive back just in time to exchange farewells with Brian, who stands in the back by his pick-up, packing his gear.

A half-hour later, I’m eating gluten-free pasta with sauteed mushrooms and sliced tomatoes.  I managed to hold the tomato with the flat side of my left hand while my right hand made the cuts with a small serrated knife.  I ate in front of Tiny House Hunting on HGTV, thinking, My upstairs room is going to be just like these tiny houses when Brian gets done.  This thought pleases me.  I’ve already started downsizing.  I need less; I like the clean, open rooms.

I realize that my legs lack the strength necessary to stand from the rocker without two good hands for a push-off.  Panic rises for a few minutes, then I figure out that I can steady my left side by contorting my elbow and mashing it against the arm of the chair.  Meanwhile the dog has started whining to be let out.  I open the back door, push the screen with the side of my foot, and scoot back just in time to avoid being knocked to the floor.  That would be tricky.  I’ve left my phone in my handbag, three rooms away, on the table by the front door.

I manage to collect the few dirty dishes under the faucet.  I get them all washed without splashing water on my wrist brace, and dry my right hand on the towel hanging from the stove.  By the time all that’s done, the stove clock has clicked to 8:15, and I’m trying to decide if it’s too early to go to bed.  I’ll write a bit, I tell myself, which, every writer knows, is code for fooling around on the internet until it seems late enough not to be considered a lightweight.

The house settles around me, quiet, dark.  I have to open the back door for the dog and set the alarm.  My hands, arms, and legs ache; I feel a pinch on my nose which makes me sorry that I left my old glasses in the car; my new ones might be adjusted too tightly.  But, on balance, I’m feeling all right.  I’m calling this day a single-handed success.  I had to struggle, but I’m not complaining.  It could be lots worse.