The snow has melted even from the shadows as the temperature climbs toward the sixties this week, and I woke from a doze beneath warm blankets by the sound of the garbage truck. I dashed outside just to check, and dragged the garbage can to the curb as the truck advanced down the street with two houses to spare before my driveway. The concrete and tar was cool under my bare feet, sun shining, birds singing, and the garbage truck driver honked back to my cheery wave.
It didn't hurt. My knees cooperated, my twisted ankle has healed so sudden use only produces the most minor of ignorable twinges. It didn't hurt from ice underfoot. It didn't hurt to gasp for breath or the slap of ice fog-laden air against my skin sucking moisture away. The old shoulder injuries are so well healed they didn't even think of protesting at jerking the can from its position at rest and hauling it up the driveway.
I've eleven interviews down, and if I am nervously watching the bank account and the phone, hoping for callbacks, if my plane is still stranded far from me - it matters not. I can run when I need to, I can still afford to feed my household, and spring is coming.
I came back inside, and started the tea kettle, called a cheery good morning to my love, and pulled the tea pot that was a lovely present from friends from under the flowers on the kitchen table, and set about spooning in tea leaves. Calmer Half appeared up the stairs to give me a hug, take the teasing about forgetting the garbage in stride, and wish a happy valentines day to me.
My husband loves me. I can run when I want to, and lift and move the things I want. I have tea, a roof over my head, and good friends. It's a wonderful day, and I hope every one of you find joy in it.