That’s how old I am according to grand-daughter, Maddy. I’m glad. Yesterday she turned “fowa” and I knew I’d miss her being “fwee,” so my new number works just fine. It is just a number. I am not old. I don’t feel old and I don’t think old. My children and grandchildren keep me young and the wonderful people I work with every day keep me vibrant.

Early Saturday morning I woke after sensing the empty space next to me. I sleep like the dead in the “Happy Hollow,” but her absence is a void that wakes me from the deepest REM slumber. I staggered out into the open kitchen/living room and saw her silhouette against the darkness in a yoga-like pose, her hands stretched and reaching for relief above her head. The stress of work and family and life and a weaving class had crept up her taut neck to the top of her head and planted it’s piercing flag in the form of a migraine. “Go back to bed. There’s nothing you can do.” Silly girl. I wasn’t going anywhere with her hurting. There was nothing I could do but be there. I soon discovered it was 5:00 AM, so I sat in the dark and watched and listened whenever she tried to talk out the source of her pain. By 6:00, her nausea had eased and she laid down in an effort to sleep. I was up for the day and made coffee. She slept until 9:30 and woke pain free. My day was complete and it had just started. That’s the love I have in my life.

At fifty-fwee.