peevish mama

There are 142 crutch steps from the physical therapy office to my car. Not that many. Like a girl with a heavy bag of pennies, I am underwhelmed once I count them out. It is a disappointingly paltry number which belies my pounding heart. But 142 crutch steps take enough time for plenty. Enough time to break a sweat. Enough time to be passed by an old woman with a cane. Enough time to receive a kind smile from John Denver. I know JD is dead. But this was him. Denim, little glasses, bowl-cut of straw. I am not sure why, but he smiled at me today. And I almost lost count.