Talking to Myself Eleven

                         Phalaenopsis (orchids) in early spring.

Talking to Myself Eleven  March 1, 2020

Titles elude me, and names, sometimes
today’s chores. I write things down so as
to remember them. Most return when I
need them, but not all. After four months
of physical therapy, meant to cure my
body’s impulse to run, I’m not cured. I
worried when Sophie didn’t respond to
my call, turned and ran toward where she
was sleeping, but I didn’t want to run. 
Fortunately, the refrigerator stopped me.
I hit my head but then I could walk
normally. If only it doesn’t happen again. 
I do try to walk heel first like they taught me,
but when I’m scared, I run. I don’t control
what scares me, but I can walk every day
and do the exercises, and use my cane when
I go very far. In this new year, I’ll turn 
eighty-three. I should be in better shape.
I thought I was. They thought I was. Give
myself credit. I’ve learned a lot, and my
body does well most of the time. It’s
another opportunity to show my courage

and do my best. That counts.