January, this glorious begin-again month, has already graduated from its own beginnings. My attempts to become a better me are half-hearted stabs, and often I wonder what it is I do all day. Today’s task, to read my thesis, remains unfinished. Despite the fact that I wrote it, it seems naught but gibberish to me. I need a hefty review of quantum mechanics before I can begin to untangle what once was as familiar to me as the feel of my lungs fighting for air after an eight-miler. Alas, my brain, my lungs, my muscles are not what once they were.
My heart, though: that’s much improved. And here is something I can do at least: tickle my son’s darling toes, hold my husband’s callused hand, stroke sweet boomer’s velvety ears more than I touch my cold phone screen or my computer’s music-less keys. I’ll keep working at everything else, but this one resolution, simple and easy as it is, carries all the weight that makes a life lived.