Okay, who shortened October and November? The last time I checked in, the leaves were beginning to flame and temperatures were dropping. Bad news: I was just outside. There’s one tree on the street yelling “I’m still gorgeous” with its bright red leaves while all of the surrounding plants have covered themselves in a shroud of gray silence to wait for spring.  

My pneumonia was confirmed – ground glass opacities in the lungs, in case you’re interested in the details. I’m better, still coughing but no longer struggling to inhale. When I go out, I make the occasional announcement – asthma, not covid – or wave my inhaler around if I happen to have a coughing spate. 

In fact, I’m feeling so healthy I had the opportunity to take my neighbor shopping. She wanted to go to Marshall’s but doesn’t like to drive on the highway. Since I’m soundly somewhere between her kids and grandkids age-wise, I have the pleasure of being her chauffeur. After shopping, she treated me to an iced tea and a bagel (and a little bag of biscotti to share). We sat for an hour and talked. I think she likes to go with me because I’m a new audience for her stories. She has led an amazing life and is an excellent storyteller so, honestly, I don’t mind.

Also, FINALLY, after eight weeks of coughing, I felt well enough to drive to Erie to see my not-my-aunt Ginny. She said that she thought I was mad at her since I haven’t been to see her in so long. She has cognitive decline, as I mentioned before, and thought my last visit had been before Christmas. I showed her our most recent selfie together. She didn’t remember, of course, but it made her feel better to know that I do usually visit regularly and that I wasn’t mad. (I don’t talk about illness because it just makes her fuss and worry.) 

The sad thing about her decline is that I can’t give her anything physical to comfort her because she loses the memory almost immediately after I leave. I visit her because I know it makes her happy in the moment and because someday it will be all I have left of her. And while that might sound melancholy, I really just mean it as a truth. All of us will one day exist only as a memory for someone else. 

Perhaps we should all work to make that memory a good one.

Much love.