Usually my feelings about Fall here in the Pacific Northwest are more mixed; excited about cooler mornings, rain in the garden, digging out warm clothes while mourning the end of languid days, sleeveless shirts, warm skin, and thriving gardens. Instead, I was fighting inevitable change, a losing battle.
My mind lingers on death more often these days. I tell Alan that if I become too demented and disabled he should smother me with a pillow, but he hasn't agreed. How about a commemorative plaque on a bench instead?
Basalt cliffs rose up straight up before us, and I imagined the floods advancing and receding repeatedly at the end of the Ice Age, the entire area being underwater, wiping out whatever was here before.
I go from having a spring in my step to groaning as I rise from my chair, from sprawling happily on the floor with grandchildren, to waking at night in pain. But what if I look at what I CAN do instead of can't?