Sunday came over the day I had my knee surgery. "I brought you some small gifts," she said. A wee bird's nest and a vintage jar of lanolin shampoo were in a neat box. She shares my love of vintage and wild things and gifted these treasures she knew I would enjoy.
Because I was wobbly from anesthesia, Chris followed me from resting spot to resting spot and close up and down the stairs, lending his strength when I needed a boost. He arranged pillows and ice packs, fetched water, cooked meals, and managed to not look harassed at my endless requests.
Our son-in-love brought me some lobster tails and shared the jolly fact that I am now, officially, bionic.
Every time Rachel sweeps through the room, she straightens something askew, clears a glass or plate, and tidies any messes left behind that I cannot manage. Then, she asks, "Can I do anything?" and when I answer does that thing instantly and without question. She is tender and concerned.
The Owlet demands to clamber up on the reclining sofa with me. She snuggles in, then stares into my soul, clearly wondering why I am not doing all the usual things. Her silent questions unanswered, she snuggles in again, warm and solid.
The dogs are concerned. They press against me reassuringly and mostly avoid trompling on my long incision.
Every day there are phone calls from relatives, emails, and messages from friends far and wide. Happy cards come in the mail. The concern is palatable. I am awash in "small gifts."
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