I am alive... and my friends' 9 year old is not.
I am achy and shattered and unable to get comfortable on Douglas, the world's most comfortable couch.
Friends and neighbors have brought us dinners and salads and desserts, and none of them have been chocolate.
There are no degrees at all in Chicago as Little Cuter waits for her bus in the gloom.
Big Cuter has a broken foot, TBG can't shake his cold, and I am perforated.
The sun comes up every morning and I am here to see it.... from a wheelchair, through a window, frightened to take the walker and cruise the backyard.
My bookshelves are full, JES has sent me an Amazon gift card, the library is around the corner and I cannot concentrate on anything longer than Dear Abby.
Billy Collins read a poem just for me, his fiancee commented in The Burrow, and I cannot come up with anything but whining and complaining and wondering to share with you.
Does it make any sense? Not really. Is it my reality? Absolutely. Can I alter any of it? Perhaps.
What do I know for sure? I am surrounded by the most wonderful friends and family, strangers and acquaintances, organizations and emailers and letter writers and card senders and commenters and old friends who check in by phone. And I know that with that much support, with all this encouragement and enthusiasm, with the help of those who love me, things will, once again, begin to make sense.
For now, I stack my days one upon the other, tea cup on saucer, trying not to make a clink.