In a Pickle

December 16, 2013

     My friend in Washington state had just donated a significant amount of money to the Tent City Project in Seattle. The work is a homeless encampment in a large parking lot, housed at places of worship, which allows about one hundred people to set up tents on the property each night. The donations are applied to dumpsters, porta potties and a shower. As my buddy left the agency and his large check behind, he shared his donator's remorse, kicking himself for giving away so much of his hard-earned income. While he visited the local Walgreens to pick up some supplies, he berated himself. The exit door swung open, a gust of wind pinched the receipt out of his hand, and it stuck onto the wet pavement. As he reached for the paper, he spotted a shiny object, just beyond the document, scooped it up and discovered a considerable diamond had been lying there. True story. This happened to be the exact day I took a sprawl across the wide city street.

     My fall-down-and-go-boom incident was a bigger deal than I had anticipated. I finally sat still, that evening, and the knee swelled, became excruciatingly painful, bad enough to toss and turn all night as I poured water into the hot water bottle, exchanging that for two ice packs every twenty minutes, to apply to my bad left knee. The injury is debilitating enough for me to request the guy upstairs do the shoveling from a recent snowfall. A very uncommon act since he works 13 hour days, seven days a week. I am humbled to texting him with an awkward plea. My dog looks longingly at the door, pacing between back and front access, yet I cannot risk the fall while giving him a romp. He simply has to be willing to feel restless and bored with me, lounging on the couch, and in bed all this time. He’ll gain an extra bone in his stocking, when I can get out to shop.