Who needs a new one? There is a perfectly functional one down the stairs, through the hall, the dining room and the downstairs bedroom. No big deal to get there, except on those rare occasions when I am caught in the buff in transit by an unexpected visitor looking in the window. There are worse things.

Years pass. The daily run to the shower has kept me thin. Naturally I ask, “Why?” when my husband suggests remodeling. I think about fiscal responsibility, impending disaster and loss of character. Enough already! How much time is left. Why not?

Oh Daddy, the rain is falling just as you promised, but, it’s from my new, adjustable shower head with the personally programmed mix of hot and cold water and it’s absolutely wonderful!
 

Too often what I see is only what needs to be done, yet here and there small, beautiful things are happening. I overlook them in my haste to weed, feed, water and prune. I'm growing beautiful roses, but I don't stop to smell them.

I need to see things differently. Funny how a wildflower can make that happen.
 

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When she learned she was pregnant yet again, my Mother took to the sofa under a dark cloud, barely rising to keep the family functioning. Happily, I turned out to be the calm after the storm, so easy compared to what they were used to, they thought I might be retarded. In the assumptions families make about one another, I became the nice, but not so smart daughter, and my sister the daughter who was brilliant but difficult. We wore our labels well into adulthood, particularly since what we knew about one another often came through our parent’s lens.

Once we entered the adult world, we saw one another sporadically, communicated via carbon copies of weekly letters sent to our parents, and occasionally talked on the phone. We were sisters, but considered ourselves very different until ……

I invited her to visit me in California while my husband was on a business trip. She accepted. We did the sights, one day crossing the Golden Gate Bridge to have lunch in Sausalito. Over her crab salad she tells me about a brilliant insight she’s had recently. As I listen, I think, hey, I’ve had the same thoughts, she’s no smarter than I am. Later, in the same conversation, I tell her about something nice I’ve done. She, having done something similar thinks, wow, I’m just as nice as she is. Those family monikers drop away and we are, we discover, not so different. We are THE BEST OF SISTERS.
 

As Margo tossed, turned and punched her pillow, she never considered her anger might be justified. No, she decided it was time she invented new descriptors for herself. She would be pragmatic, calm, organized, efficient and gay (defined as happy and full of fun) All things she already is with the exception of this momentary lapse of goodwill.

I’ve been there, punching my pillow, regretting my actions. Somewhere deep in our female psyches it is written that we Matriarchs keep smiling and pick up the slack in family matters. When things fall apart and we fall apart along with them, we assume it’s our failure and vow to try harder next time. Has society laid this on us, or is it part of our genetic code? I don’t know, but I do know, it helps keep families together.