Thank you to the world

Margie was in good form today. The bright sunshine reminded her of Camp Mikan, her favorite topic, and after she talked about the lake and her summers there as a camper and camp counselor in the late 1930s and early 1940s, she looked up at the clear blue sky with a wide grin.

“I know I always say it’s time for me to go, alright already, but on a day like this, who wouldn’t want to be alive? Days like this—they’re the same whether you’re ten or—how old am I now?”

Ninety-six. 

“Right. Whether you’re ten or ninety-six, it’s a gift, the sunshine. That softness in the air, not having to wear a coat, the trees, all of it. As long as I’m still here, I’ll take the sunshine, I’ll drink coffee with lots of foamy milk piled up on top, and I’ll say thank you to the world.”


Update on my granddaughter in Arizona: her contractions stopped, and they told her to stay home. She had a restless night, and now they’re going to induce labor. She’s on the way to the hospital as I write this. Little Nova hasn’t made her appearance yet.