“Now, for the next ten minutes, let’s either freewrite or writeabout what it means to enjoy life in this season.”
Lupita freed me from Mrs. Batton with the wordfreewrite. Even scribble scrabble must be acceptable with a freewrite. So that’s exactly what I did first. I drew a gaggle of eights for the heck of it. Smiled at them and myself.
You see those, Mrs. Batton?
Then I remembered that Mrs. Batton had gray hairs on her head over fifty years ago; she was probably long gone.
Rest her soul.
And then I wrote.
Sorry for thinking ill of the dead.
I don’t like writing because of her. This isn’t going well.
A lot of people have ruined things for me. Not Eileen, though. She’s nice and I hope she gets well because she deserves it. She deserves life. Is that a thing? Does anyone deserve life? Probably not. It’s a gift. Something that lands in your lap and you either open it and use it—whatever it looks like, whatever size, however many days you get—or you let it sit in that box.
Who is you? You is me. This is my life. My gift. I want to use it. Put it on and wear it, smell it, flaunt it, bling it out!!!
Other times I just want to sit with it. Cherish it. Adore it, all by myself. And be thankful for it.
I hope Eileen gets better.
I hope this business with the house repairs doesn’t take away my joy.
Too passive.
I won’t let it take my joy. This is pipes and wires and man-made materials and money that was never intended to last forever. If I let this stuff steal my joy, everything else is up for grabs.
No. I’m gonna be glad to have my home, my new friends, my family. My grandson. They are all a gift, too. Even if I have to move to Dubai with Eric Jr. It’s not the worst thing that could happen.
Beep-beep-beep.Lupita’s alarm signaled the end of ten minutes.
Valerie whined, “Awwww.”
“Really?” Althea quipped, and we all laughed.
“That was definitely free therapy.” Valerie sighed. She stretched her neck on both sides and let out a belch. “Sorry. It’s cleansing.”
“All righty, then,” Sonia exclaimed. “You got pretty comfortable there.”
“That was nice, Lupita. Thanks for the suggestion,” I had to agree.
We took turns talking about our experience. Everyone said we needed to do more journaling, more deep thinking, more relaxing.
“I can’t wait for Eileen to get back. She’s gonna love it,” Christine said with a hopeful grin.
Instead of rushing out to get Elijah, I kept one eye on the library lobby as I hung around with the ladies a few minutes after our official dismissal time. The air felt lighter now, as if the weight we’d all carried in earlier had somehow been lifted.
This is what friends do, I told myself.They hang out.“Fellowship” is what my mother would have called it.
And it felt good.
My celebrations continued the next day. “This a win-win,” I kept telling myself as I traveled on to the bank to make the deposit. There was no early-withdrawal penalty, since I was over fifty-nine. For once, my age workedforme instead of against me. “Besides, it’s just money. And if the problem can be solved with money, then it’s not a real problem.”
Eric used to say that all the time. I used to believe him, because that was the two-income lifestyle we lived when we were together. But things were different now. I had always imagined myself retiring someday, with all my income sourced from something I’d done when I was younger. Be it Social Security, investments, pension, selling a house, my husband’s retirement, or even kids taking care of me.
What I hadn’t imagined was the idea of legal intervention, of someone declaring me incapable of caring for myself, making decisions for me based on rigid government guidelines, forcing me to withdraw large lump sums of money, telling me who could stay with me and how many days I had to prove myself competent or find myself without a home.
