Let’s say I’m traveling at high-speed.

I’m on a bicycle moving swiftly, beginning to get the shimmy of velocity.  I maintain balance, steer steadily with concentration.  Winds whip but I remain upright.  Small rocks cast themselves in my path but I maneuver around them.

I am a force in motion.  Fluid.  Adept.

And then like an arrow shot from the side lines, Influenza takes aim right through the spokes of my tire.  Immediately halted, I fly over the handlebars and land with a heavy thud on my back.  The bike has crashed and skidded to a stop, the front wheel still spinning, mid-air.  My back to the grass, my face to the sky, I’m stalled but breathing as I stare into the vast blue above me.

I guess I stayed there like that for about a week.  I’m standing now.  I’ve brushed the grass and leaves out of my hair.  Bike’s got a slightly bent rim but it’s still rideable.  For now, I’m walking it back toward home.  Small steps and a slower pace.

I come to the Archives for something profound to express.  Deep and meaningful would be nice.  Even something funny.  Maybe I’m still stunned.  Perhaps the illness drained the well and I’m just scrapping bottom.

There was that soup last night.  Cauliflower and green beans.  One fresh tomato and the celery picked from Mary’s garden.  The lentils and the cumin and the garlic.  A small pot and a wooden spoon.  The savory steam.  The simmering orange and green and red heated over a bluish flame.

So if someone were to say, “Hey, how ya doin?”

I guess I’d say, “I’m walking the bike back and making soup.”

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