Saturday, March 14th
I fly home to Denver after an abbreviated trip to Washington, DC. My phone is loaded with pictures of the Anacostia River bike path and Degas paintings I saw at the National Gallery. Boarding my connecting flight in St. Louis, children are everywhere, spring breakers heading to Colorado to ski. After landing at DIA, the concourse shuttle has a slowdown, and people press together like sardines as the train doors stand open. A toddler with brown hair and sparkly pink pajamas sucks her thumb as she rests her head on her mother’s shoulder. The child stirs and smiles at me, then reaches out for the vertical hand rail I am also grasping. Her mother says Don’t touch that! But it is too late–her fingers are encircling the shiny metal post. Quickly, tenderly, her mother holds the small wrist still while another woman drops hand sanitizer on the child’s pudgy fingers. Her mother rubs it in, kisses her daughter’s cheek. A moment later, the thumb goes back in her mouth, and her eyes drift closed. The shuttle departs for the main terminal.
Wednesday, March 18th
I am walking over to see my friend Pat, who had surgery while I was out of town. The sun is shining. I take long strides and feel soreness in my legs from biking the day before. Around the corner, my four year-old neighbor stands with her mother in front of a half-planted flower box. C has red hair and a piquant expression. Her mom and I say hello as I stand back and admire their purple and yellow and blue flowers.
Look, I am in my jammies! C exclaims. I might wear them all day!
I think that’s a great idea, I respond.
On Pat’s shady porch, I drop a plastic grocery bag with half a dozen eggs and a few cough drops. I knock, then retreat to the sunlit steps. She appears in the doorway, right arm in a sling and stylish gray hair parted on the side. You look great, I say. You don’t look like you had surgery a few days ago. She says, I feel pretty good, not having any pain. But, look, I’m still in my pj’s! They are lavender with a pretty print.
Friday, March 20th
Wet spring snow is plastered on the north side of every tree trunk and street sign, and the roads are rutted with frozen slush. I arrive for my Project Angel Heart delivery shift. They are short of volunteers. As I wait to receive my cart loaded with meal bags, I am arrested by the changed expressions of the bustling staff. Always kind, the planes of their faces today hold a determination and a focus that makes me straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. There is no small talk today. Some staff and volunteers here today are surely veterans of the AIDS crisis–all dedicated to the giving of food as medicine.
Midway through my route, I place three meal bags on a porch, ring the doorbell with my gloved hand, and stand back to wave a quick hello. A sleepy man comes to the door in tan sweat pants and says, Oh thanks! We both smile as he pulls the bags inside the house. Instantly, though, he is serious. In a gruff voice he asks: What in the world are you doing?! I’m startled for a moment, but then he adds, Put a hat on your head—it’s cold out there!
The More I Write 