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I got though the night…

Self Heal in my garden

Yesterday was a difficult day for breathing. Late, I dealt with my mail. There had been some packages that I had not managed to open in my to and fro between the garden, the house and going out. The need to be nebulized niggled. I went upstairs to cool my neck, face, tummy, and feet and laid on my bed with the ceiling fan on for ten minutes or so. Then I turned it off and went to sleep.

I have wakened feeling ok. I was at the Bridge of Varolius and remembered who I thought the woman in Dave’s shop is or reminded me of. The teaching assistant at my daughter’s first school. I found myself drifting to sleep to sleep when I heard my name. I got up and showered and let Geoff know I’m alive by asking if he’d be cycling today. He will be course fishing. I know what I’d rather do. Cycling any fine day. I used to run the 100m at school. I ran for pure pleasure and the thrill of physical movement like a horse at gallop.

I am grateful that I have travelled so much as a child with my family, and then with friends. Then with the NGO and later getting my degree and doctorate at USC. My accent got me invited on some great road trips, an epic was driving to Phoenix for three days, then Flagstaff oh the complete difference! And then to a remote cabin in woods near the Grand Canyon before finally heading back to L.A.

The Highway 1 is my favourite drive in Southern California. And having discovered Los Olivos, Pismo Beach, San Luis Obispo and other gems on route to Big Sur, Monterey and more before San Francisco waa awesome. I can skip San Francisco. The others are greater memories.

Then I travelled with my boyfriend before we married and then as married in France and Switzerland by train air and car. The drive to St Mandrier was challenging and I did not do my fair share. But being told “We need Lyons but not this Lyons”, and being directed against my better judgment in to what led to a stadium did not get my wrath. After driving around Brussels as the navigator and French speaker for five hours only to find the address was a tiny allee, so no wonder no one had heard of it gave me no mud to mud to sling. That night was 9/11. After stopping so we and our child could use the cafe, we heard it on the radio. Next morning in St Mandrier I bought Paris Match and read about the 3 planes. The calls of goodbye I love you .

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by madswirl.com and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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