Going home.
Physical torture break.
Two weeks.
Isn't it odd when we lose something we are aware of what we had?
My broken, now healing wrist, made me aware of my hand.
Little things I can do now with my left hand, that I couldn't do for the last two months:
Scratch my back (I scratch it with my left hand.).
Drink, I didn't know it but I usually hold my drink in my left hand.
Put my hair in a ponytail. Tie my shoes. Buckle my belt. Button a shirt. Cut with a knife.
Drive.
Wash my hair.
Wallpaper…
I am going home to Willows for two weeks. I leave on Wednesday.
I asked my mother if there was anything she wanted from France… she asked for old soap cubes from Marseille.
Those puppies are heavy. My right hand is going to have a workout.
If you happen to be in Willows let me know. I'll be there on November 17th until the First of December.
I wonder if my brother Mathew will pick me up?
One of the main reasons I am going home is to attend my cousin Alma's daughter Morgan's wedding. I haven't been to a cousin's wedding in years. And that is a missing joy factor in my life. When one is part of a family as big as mine it seems there is a Baptism, Wedding, Birthday, and Funeral to attend every month. I am slightly exaggerating.
Packing is a pain.
In the whole of life packing is not a problem.
But thinking about packing makes thinking about the bigger issue easier:
The fear of flying.
What are you afraid of?
I am afraid of animals, though they ALWAYS come up to me.
I am afraid of flying, but one would not know it.
I am afraid of ladders.
Leave a Reply