I keep a notebook by my bed. A big, chunky spiral one. Each night before I go to sleep, I write down, in list form, what was good for the day.
Some days the list is long. Some days, it's shorter.
Some days there are big things, like "my niece was born" or "saw U2 in concert."
Some days, the list contains minor things, like "sweet potato pear soup at my favorite cafe" or "good hair day."
But lately, it's been difficult to make a list at all. These past few months... They've been hard.
Some days lately I just write "breathing." Because, if nothing else, all day long, I was breathing.
And I was thinking this morning that I am really ready for February to be over, because it really has sucked.
But when I walked in the door from my run, Hubby says that my sister is on the answering machine and wants me to call her. So I play the message. "Call me right away when you get this." And I know that something is wrong.
So I call.
And she says that Dad was in an accident. He's four states away. The car is totaled. He is fine.
I didn't really, fully start breathing again until I talked to him a few hours later. Heard his voice. Four states away. Very sore. Not going to be home for a few more days. But fine.
And the world snapped into perspective.
It has, in fact, been a long, cold, lonely winter.
But it's alright.
Tonight I get to list that I am breathing. And that my Dad is breathing, too.