When I arrived to swim laps today at our little local pool, a woman came running out of the locker room. Her friend had slipped off a bench onto the wet floor and could not get up. I ran in with the pool director to help, but she was in a tight space, cramped between lockers and bolted benches. She was a large woman, age 74, huge surgical scars on both knees. She hadn’t fallen hard and was unhurt, but she has a bad hip and arthritic shoulders, and couldn’t maneuver.
We couldn’t help without hurting her, so the director called 911. Such a simple thing, getting up off the floor, until it is an impossible thing. The woman accepted the whole fiasco, the young uniformed men, the hoisting, with embarrassed grace.
Fall begins today. The world reminds us of the inevitability of change, ebbing, shriveling. What lies ahead for any of us? We can do our best to stave off time’s erosions, but perhaps the best preparation is to cultivate grace and a sense of humor.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 27: 177 words, TOTAL = 4127; 55,873 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.