It’s that time of the year when I start to see the morning rise as I walk home – a kind of blue behind the clouds. It is a hopeful sight.
I managed to swing my right arm a little as I walked today. Small steps but they are meaningful. Sometimes it is just a case of trying to make it feel normal. And my body doesn’t forget. I thought about all the people who are afflicted with a stroke and have to relearn how to walk, talk and move. It must be so hard. My discomfort is nothing by comparison. I thought about the man with his wife whom he used to see in Tesco’s, the one he calls Mr & Mrs Baldie (he is without hair and she, bless her, is losing hers). He has had a stroke, his wife told him. I wonder how he is managing. Poor love.
We sat out in the sun last night before bed. It was lovely. The wild flowers have taken over the waste ground once more – such a range of varieties – I saw buttercups, daisies, clover, ragwort, dandelions, forget-me-nots and loads more that I don’t know the names for. What a colourful mess of life. And for the moment it is ours.
