It Wasn’t Just That

It wasn’t just that I broke my leg;

it was that it broke as I was walking

out the door, not skiing, not ice-skating

or snow-shoeing down a steep hill in

February when the snow is crusted

over in the gully. It wasn’t just that

I broke my leg, but that it happened

when we were hurrying to meet some

friends at the Eastman Theater

(whose admission we had offered

to pay). A mitzvah, my husband might

have called it. He would have wished

we could have done it anonymously,

(but someone had to produce a credit

card). It was December, and we, like

everyone, were too busy, overbooked.

A week earlier, I heard myself invite ten

people we barely knew over for Christmas

day dinner, which might’ve been a fine

idea, except I was told by the key invitee

that I must include an older woman, known

for her rudeness, who was part of their

extended family. When I realized, soon

after slipping, that I could not stand up

from the bottom step of the front porch,

my first thought was not, Oh, no—I have

broken my leg and life is going to be difficult

for weeks now. It was not—Oh, dear—how will

I manage the stairs between our attic bedroom,

The two floors below, laundry in the basement?

No, I am sorry to say that I sat on the sidewalk in

the cold, grateful that I now had a graceful excuse

to un-invite those ten folks for Christmas dinner.