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She opened the blinds to let the sunshine in the way her father had every day all his years.

She can’t feel sunshine anymore but somehow it’s important to open them because he never failed to.

She limped to her car. Not entirely sure which part of the limp was paralysis versus the recently acquired broken bones.

One socked gimp-like broken foot and a sandal on the other. She’d given up trying to be beautiful a long time ago. 

It’s the second time in her memory in which she’s been grateful for the ability to walk again.  This time, far less dramatic than the first, but the depth of gratitude is strikingly similar.

She could never have asked someone to pick this up at the store for her; that seemed inherently wrong. 

It’s sunny today as she drives to the little local store. She takes a moment to be grateful to have a car. She can’t feel the sun, but she’s grateful it’s out today.

In the store, she knows right where to go as she’s cased out this necessary item which is last on her list. 

She offers an empty gestured smile and waits for the older lady standing where she needs to go to finish. Not wanting to appear impatient or rude, she pretends to browse the aspirins and cold medicines as she waits. 

She calculates on her phone the math required , double checks, and takes a moment to be grateful there is plenty in stock and enough remaining on the shelf left for any who may need it. 

She’s never been comfortable taking the last of anything. 

She limps to the register, stopping briefly to look at new chap sticks she’s not seen before. Her lip balm addiction is severe. She ponders, then decides she has plenty of lip balm already.

She passes the wine selection and wonders if she deserves wine. Hmmm…

No, she does not.

Wine belongs to lively people, hopeful hearts, gatherings of friends, and good mothers.  She doesn’t fit it any of those categories now.

She doesn’t even try to fit in them anymore. 

Once home, with all the curtains opened as they should be, she gathers the ingredients and puts them all stacked neatly on the mantle. 

It’s now the only thing neat and orderly in her house so she takes care and pride in their orderly presentation. 

She doesn’t know when. Maybe Mother’s Day would be appropriate as the thought of yet another of those passing by fills her last teeny tiny empty crevices with dread. 

She feels there’s something profound to be said but she no longer has access to profundity. She has become a “see spot run” version of her former mind; a flat, used up crayon of her former creativity. The edges aren’t sharp enough to comprehend corners and intricacies and staying inside the lines is impossible. 

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