Not Saying Much

It's not that I don't want to talk. It's not that I can't or won't. I guess if I asked myself some questions that might break the ice a bit. How am I doing? OK, some days better than OK. I'm not getting as much exercise as I used to, but I'm shoveling a lot more snow. Maybe it's a wash.

Am I counting my blessings? Sure. A job in this economy. A fine family. The comforts of religion and somewhat clear thinking. The comforts of hazy thinking, too. Friends near and far, known and unknown, past present and future, gay and straight and some in between like me. A dog and a cat, a desk and a rug, a warm home and warm memories. People I care about and people who care about me. Things not to take for granted. Health, pharmaceuticals, books, music and laughter. Smiles, my own and those of others. Ten fingers, ten toes and connections from all of them to my brain. Mind, heart, soul. The ability to talk and listen, see and sense, write and read, maybe even some math if there's a calculator nearby (oh Sarah, if I'd only had real math teachers like you in my youth) , light, shadow, color. Notes, letters, pencils and pens. I can count blessings and it's easy to lose track of the count.

Well I said I wouldn't say much, and I haven't, but I've said more than I thought I would. The fingers can still hit the keys, that's not too bad for a cold Sunday night in December.