Seven Days of Grace

The skeletons of trees stand stark against the cold. The lava sun sets in the west, throwing a cast of copper over branched fingers reaching to the sky.

At lunchtime, a gaggle or two of Canadian geese mosey through a congested intersection. The light is green but drivers halt and wait for them to pass.

Me: Hi Granddad. I thought I’d surprise you.
Granddad: Oh Honey, I’m glad to see you for one reason. I need cat food.

An old woman, the archetype of a crone, climbs down the steps of the bus. She and the driver exchange smiles. With her red shawl wrapped tight to guard against the wind, she hobbles into the post office to mail her packages.

A neighbor trains his new dog.  A firm command and the pup sits. A clear “here boy” and over he runs, black tail a waggin’, into a symphony of praise, and a cookie.

Dry, dead brown leaves weave and twirl in the wind. Their edges skim the pavement like fairies skipping across a pond.

Our house is drafty and difficult to heat. In the winter Mark stays in his man cave where it’s warmer but lacking in comfortable furniture. Tonight, we sit on the couch in the living room and watch TV. He leans back into the pillows. I rest my head on his chest.

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