It’s My Life

Tag: civic_center_park

  • By the time I pulled back into the driveway, I realized there was no reason to keep running around town. The mission was complete, my hip had behaved itself from start to finish, and I wasn’t about to press my luck. I’m still healing, you know, so I’ve learned to listen when my body gives me a good moment and not push it too far. That’s why I stopped back home for lunch.

    There’s something satisfying about ending an errand on your own terms instead of squeezing in “just one more stop.” A good lunch at home beats fast food any day, especially when you’re already looking forward to relaxing. It gave me a chance to recharge, appreciate that my body had cooperated, and enjoy the small victory of getting out, getting what I needed, and making it home without pain stealing the spotlight.

    I kept it simple and had a basic Lunchable for lunch—nothing fancy, but it hit the spot. Sometimes that’s all you need: something easy, familiar, and quick so you can settle in and enjoy the moment without overdoing it.

    And honestly, after all that, a nap would be proper. When you’re still healing, rest isn’t optional—it’s part of the process. Sometimes the best way to cap off a successful outing is to lean into that calm, let your body recover, and enjoy the quiet. Today, lunch at home wasn’t just a meal—it was the reward for a trip that went exactly the way I’d hoped, and the perfect lead-in to a well-earned nap.

  • Shoelace Protest

    I tied my shoes this morning—
    double knot, like they taught me—
    tight, controlled,
    predictable.

    But halfway through the day
    they came undone anyway.

    Not dramatic.
    No speech.
    No sirens.
    Just a quiet unraveling
    against pavement.

    And I stood there—
    one lace dragging like a question—
    thinking how strange it is
    that the smallest failures
    trip us hardest.

    So I didn’t retie them.

    No kneel.
    No fix.
    No quiet compliance.

    I walked.

    Let them slap the concrete,
    whisper against the ground,
    announce each step
    like a soft rebellion.

    People noticed—
    or maybe they didn’t—
    but I felt it:

    Every loose thread
    a refusal.

    Every step
    a protest against the idea
    that everything
    must always be held together
    just because
    someone showed you how.

    By the time I got home,
    they were filthy, frayed,
    nearly undone completely.

    And I thought—
    good.

    Let them be.

    Not everything broken
    needs to be fixed.

    Some things
    just need to be seen.