At Least They're Committed

I stretch my back out, or at least try to. My wrist has stopped throbbing and my ribs seem all intact. It’s a snowy Dec. 1 in Colorado — not the nice fluffy stuff either, the icy darts that seem to attack your exposed flesh no matter which way you turn — and it’s Hazel’s birthday. I have no idea how old she would have been. Prolly about 94. No matter, despite that she never liked me I refuse to believe that she reached down from, well, wherever she is, and knocked me down in the snow on the driveway as I attempted to put chunks of a dismembered tree into the back of Dexter to weigh him down on the slick roads. My neck is still achy, but I’m fine. Really, my head hurts a little, but I’m good.