Talking to Myself Fifty-One

 Talking to Myself Fifty-One December 6, 2020

I’ve lived as though in an underground

burrow, rarely outside the front or back

door. My son wants to be there at the 

front in case I fall. Janet sees me go

down the back steps and waves me on.

I count my steps. I don’t fall. I had a

tiny filling on Wednesday, and my dentist

went another mile and cleaned off some

tartar. On Friday, after a year of talking

by phone, I saw my doctor. I gave a

good report: no nose bleeds, no afib,

no lost words, and a new attachment

by email. She laughed, delighted. I

said I was slowly getting stronger,

walking better. “Come back in three

months.” Only it’s four. She’s popular,

has a heavy patient load, but she exults

with me over my successes. Meantime,

my son continues the heavier chores:

sees to the hens, hanging up the clothes,

and my helper Janet put in a zinnia

garden, which gave me flaming blooms

of color well into November. She even

tamed the rooster to eat out of her hand.

I’m alone most of the time. Then,

suddenly a hug from my check-out

friend at the Mini-Mart. She misses

me, sent a Christmas card. The virus

has kept me away since March, but

we hear there’s a vaccine on the way,

and we old ones have priority after

the health workers. I can’t wait. I’ll

slowly get back to my hens, to planting

tomatoes, sugar snap peas, maybe

onions and beans. Spring will arrive, 

and I can work outside again.