Sunday afternoon.
I’m sitting on my couch, watching the football game. The window to my right is open. I can hear the neighborhood children playing in my backyard. A cool, fall breeze is sweeping across the room.
One of my cats is sitting on the windowsill, watching the birds. The other is sleeping between my legs.
Elysha is folding laundry to my left, telling me about the neighbor’s birthday party scheduled for later today.
My son, Charlie, worried about my post-surgery pain, gently hugs me.
Somewhere upstairs, Clara is undoubtedly reading a book.
Despite my pain and immobility, it’s pretty spectacular.
It’s one of these unexpected, fleeting moments of overwhelming, all-consuming gratitude that I experience from time to time… singular moments in time when I can’t quite believe the life I have today.
It sometimes, oftentimes feels like yesterday when I was homeless, jobless, and worst of all, hopeless, facing a possible prison sentence, absolutely certain that I would never live a normal life again. Never own a home. Never have a family. Never know the joy and ease of a lazy Sunday afternoon.
It feels like yesterday that I was contemplating a move to Florida so at least I’d be warm while homeless.
It was 30 years ago – three full decades – but it still insanely feels like last week.
It know it sounds silly and ridiculous, but something as simple as a windowsill – my windowsill, affixed to a window that I own – can suddenly flood me with eyes-welling-with-tears gratitude.
A couch.
A television.
A room with a roof.
An honest-to-goodness family.
A tiny, overwhelming moment that I can’t quite believe.
