Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Texting Ma last December at 12:44 am

And then there are those moments, usually late afternoon, or late at night, like now, when I get up from the recliner or from the floor and realize suddenly on the way to the kitchen, hey, I can walk. My legs are back.

And so I pace the upstairs...kitchen to christmas tree...across the cork floors, over the ugly rugs and uneven patches of flooring, past the cat condo, past the couch, the table, the cat toys, the litter box, the backdoor , the recliner,  back and forth, back and forth I pace happily on my easy legs, relax into the fluid motion of walking, trust my legs will hold me up, will walk me and take me effortlessly where I need to go. It feels so good, dreamily good, and I start thinking maybe this is it

Maybe I got my legs back

Maybe it was just a silly fluke

Or virus and now it's done

But then I feel the first pull in my left leg,  then another, and before I know it, it's the same old dance

But I keep going because maybe it will work itself out, go back to the way it was, so I pace backwards, back and forth backwards 

and my entire upright leggy life plays backward before me, in film snippets

Look: there I am walking my dollies up and down the driveway in a stroller

And look at that: Can you see me walking Batiste down to the corner, to Balsam, and back? See how happy I look? And there... that's me, you, and dad walking along the beach in Oregon on the way to Evergreen. See? Eventually I have to stop pacing, forward or backward, 

I have pushed my luck, faced facts,  but I'll do it again tomorrow