I remember a time many moons ago when my beloved father was struggling with addiction, and I looked at his fight and thought how lucky he was. He was lucky because many other men, of his age and without money or health insurance or any resources or a loving family, died every day from the wreckage of alcoholism. I thought then, as I do now, that I was born under a lucky star.
So what does 60 show? Gray hair? Well, yes, a few. But mostly...not yet. Wrinkles? Check. I have eyelids and other part that
I sit in my den, the remnants of an afternoon fire evident on the hearth over my shoulder. The house huffs and puffs its own warm sounds, and the deep breath of a very large dog reminds me that I am never truly alone. The occasional car streaks by the front window, splashing up a winter rain in its wake and tearing my attention to the street. It's late. It's quiet. I am content. My breathing has slowed for the evening, my eyes are begging for mercy. As I prepare to shut them for the night, I am met with this image. A lucky star, indeed.