Another blogger’s lamentation of being stuck at home, because she slipped by the washing machine and tore a muscle, brought back a visceral memory.
Two years ago I fell tripping on the edge of a rug on the way to answer the door. The resulting sprained wrist and blue lip and black eye brought some pitying looks from people who would never look at DH the same. The poor guy was nowhere near, but yea, right, they all say that. I could see it in their eyes- next thing you’re gonna tell me you ran into a door, lady?
But what struck me (aside from the hard floor) was how mundane it was and how much it took away from me (not to mention my spouse’s good rep.) for the next couple of months.
And I also never got to see who was ringing the doorbell. Probably a solicitation for whatever, dagnabit.
It’s the little things.
Maybe I can remind myself that these are also the stuff magic dust is made of. DS saw a wounded pigeon limping today. Near her were other pigeons, chirping away and doing their best to keep humans away from their crippled comrade. DS’s eyes were moist when he told me of this.
A little thing.
This is a contemplation of the little things.
This is a little post.