Yes, I am alive. Happy to be so. I’ve seen so many deaths in recent months, that I’ve become introspective about death. With my brother’s death anniversary cropping up so close to the death of loved ones, I have been able to be more on point in wording of compassion to those who need it. I’ve tried to do what I would need done. Mostly, though, I’ve been grateful for those still left with me and for my own improving health.
Allergies are smacking me in the face, and my son is getting hit as well. For five years, (seven total in the last 17 years) I lived in a place that tried to kill me. Rag weeds, fertilizer plant, industrial sand blasting, I lived within 50 feet of them at one point and half a mile for the five year stint. Doctor said I would day if we stayed there. We left the first time, but were forced back.
Both times in living there, I almost died. First time, while pregnant. During the five year stint, I could pretty much count on being sicker than a dog for 90 percent of my life there. I tried exercising, meds, everything I could. It would work in spurts, until a specific pollen or black mold caught me, and then it was months and months of being terrorized by snot, which in turn slammed me with bronchitis and pneumonia. At one point, if my husband had not stayed home instead of leaving as I told him he could, I would of died. Instead, he took me in.
So when I say I’m alive, I mean it fervently and with great joy. I am alive. Alive to enjoy the smell of petrichor, alive to see the reds and purples against the dark green foliage, alive to scent the sweetness of lavender and roses, alive to hear the birds chirping and squawking.
I am alive.