Fading autumn evenings

I smell the sweet of fresh earth, unmown fields. The breeze is perfect: swirling, fragrant, and welcoming. (Is it spring?)

I smell cooling asphalt; someone is watering their new sod. I smell the tart of the crabapples I trod on, feel them squish under my sandals. (Is it summer?)

I smell the coming chill, the snapping bonfires. I listen to the leaves, dry and rustling. A sudden gust carries a handful down and into my hair. (No, it's autumn.)

The swamp smells biting, old, tonight. Something with more force than the wind snaps the twigs near my feet; two tiny beads stare up from the darkness. (Who are you? What do you see when you look at me?)

I look down at my legs: scarred. Tired. They jiggle more than I think they ought to. I try not to hate them for not conforming to my idea of perfection. Yet I see their determined strength. They carry me here.

With every step, I feel my back twinge. For a brief moment I want to cry. Why do I still have to hurt so? But lest I forget: I was never again supposed to able to finish that workout I just completed. She - my "disabled" back - carries me here, too.

I look at my oversized, bandaged arm. My right hand does everything for me. I hate my weakness. Yet I know she'll heal, too.

I think about my chest. I pray Tuesday tells that the tiny lump is just more scar tissue. I think of the people who love me and pray for me - and there is comfort despite the fear.

I close my eyes. I become aware of my face. I am smiling.

I learn to love my life during this time of forced stillness. Chopping cranberries for cookies. Watching movies with coffee. Singing as much and as loudly as I need to. Going to see a band I've wanted to see for over a year. Babbling at my godbabies. And this: walking.

I am grateful. Sometimes I wonder how that can be.