It's a cold and rustly February night and I lie in bed. I am sandwiched between heating pads, swaddled in ivory flannel pajamas and a fleece throw. I wear glasses and my knees rest on two pillows. I hear the constant trickle of the fish aquarium and the fainter, distant hum of the bathroom fan. I still and concentrate. Other than occasional rumblings of traffic, this is all I hear. I've gone to bed early, a hip throbbing and a mind too busy for such tired eyes.
Today I got a cane.
I think about canes and I remember Grandpa Jim. I remember his cane propped here and there; hanging from the handle of the Safeway cart. But he was in his eighties. I am exactly half a century younger than he was when he died, six years and one day ago.
I miss him. I miss his Eeyore personality and his big knuckles. I miss our chats which were slow and speed-bumped. I would sit and know that there is value in things that don't come easy. I miss his world of blue.
So I am 32 and I own a cane. How to feel about that?
Is it necessary? No.
Will it allow me to be out more? Maybe.
Will it help my joints not take so much strain? Yes.
So it's a good thing then.
There is value in things that don't come easy.
