November 28, 2017, Prescott-
Two events occupied my time, this evening,
even as a creeping fatigue occupied my body.
The first was a tableau of non-profit organizations,
one of which I am deeply connected: Prescott Farmers Market.
The two young ladies who oversee it are like daughters to me,
never mind that their own fathers are fine men.
I made contact with several other NPO’s.
One was represented by a man with a handshake like a vise-grip.
He’s occupied with reaching out to fatherless boys,
so that grip is a good thing.
Another was represented by a man whose mind was elsewhere.
I spent a few minutes with him, anyway.
An hour later and eight miles away,
I joined an interfaith devotional.
The hostess served up a German chocolate cake,
complemented by another friend’s homemade Green Tea ice cream.
The hostess led a singalong,
which, to me, is best spent listening to her megaton voice.
“Happy Birthday”, though, was a genuine group effort.
I was starting to fade,
when it came my duty to cut the cake,
and was gently reminded of this.
Fade-out didn’t hit, full force,
until my head hit the pillow,
forty minutes after I bid my friends
thank you and good night.
Chapter 67 began
with a reminder of how much
I’m loved here,
and how fallible we each remain.