Delivery by Patresa Hartman

I started to write my gratitude post earlier today. I started to write something deep and profound. I started to write something deep and profound while sitting in the developmental reading class I teach at the community college -- while waiting for my beautiful and interesting students (who come from all over and bring all things and always always always remind me that there is much more to every story) to finish their reading placement test. And that we are all stories. That is the post I started to write.

But then class ended and I moved through my schedule to the next thing. And then that thing ended and I moved to the next. And there were several more Nexts, and I moved through all of them wearing brand new shoes that are purple. The purpleness of them made me happy in the store, so happy; but despite their happy-inducing purpleness, they are new and therefore unfamiliar with the contours of my feet and the length and rhythm of my stride. And so they hurt very much and a lot.

And although I eventually landed home, there was more to do, as my sweet dog cannot walk herself. But wouldn't that be nice? If she could, I mean. Wouldn't that be something if I could open the front door and say, "Do a few laps around the neighborhood. Stay on the sidewalk, would you, Dear? And look both ways. Here is a bag for your poop." But she cannot because she is brimming with Wild and has not forgotten her wolf roots like the rest of us.

But it turned out to be a good thing. We walked, she and I, connected by woven leash. My tired energy and my headache buzzed down the fabric line while her So Much Joy energy buzzed up, and together we balanced. I told her how perfect she was, and I meant it.

Back in my kitchen there was food to worry over. I just cannot tell you how tired the thought of it made me. Of pulling open refrigerator doors and cabinet doors and pantry doors, of lifting plates and cups and forks and cutting things and running water. I cannot explain to you the weariness of turning on burners or even pushing microwave buttons. The effort to peel an orange would break me for certain. This body of mine, please understand, is still my summer body, not yet transitioned to all these Nexts stacked shoulder to shoulder.

And so now, as every single thing that makes up me is aching and yawning, the thing in the world I am most grateful for, at this exact moment in time and place, in the world, of all things hurtling through the galaxy, is sweet and sour chicken from Taste of China's friendly delivery man.