The Gift

I could not sleep last night.  The neighbor turned her floodlights out early; the night critters fell silent; the moon fled behind clouds. I remained alert.  Mistakes and failures haunted me.  Ripples of spasticity coursed through my legs.   Eventually exhaustion dragged me into the abyss.

I woke before the alarm rang, in the darkened room, no glimmer of sunrise dancing on the grim, smoky horizon.  I struggled downstairs and staggered through my galley kitchen.  Coffee defied me.  I cracked an egg and made a slice of toast and sat at my table, staring at the whirring blades of my little fan.

I left for work a few minutes late.  I missed the cheerful old couple who walk along the levee in their BlueBlockers, swinging their arms and gathering trash.  I slowed for the hairpin curve and strained to see around the berm, hoping for a big ship.  Nothing; not even a little skiff.   A wisp of sorrow rose in my breast.

But then:  I turned onto Jackson Slough Road.  And an angel whispered:  Life sucks, we know, but here’s a tree full of egrets.  

It’s the sixth day of the ninety-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

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