Was just sitting outside writing a poem – counting my blessings. Writing about how wonderful today has been. About waking up, having my sight, my hearing – about how grateful I am to rouse my son from sleep and that he woke with his sight – his hearing. The simple fact that I walk to his room – that I have use of my limbs, without pain, unaided. Grateful that we have food in the fridge. That I have medicine in my pill box. Running late today for the school bus turned into an opportunity to spend more time with him as I drove Nic to school. Then early to work, I looked around at my office and smiled. I am employed. Laughed with co-workers and friends and just felt so alive. And blessed. While I was writing I heard screaming from the house next door. Angry, shrill venomous shouts. I don’t know who they were directed at this time – the abusive spouse or the children. I shared today that I felt guilty for praying for myself of late. I’ve not been feeling well, and I was scared. After a moment of silence on the radio for the Boston Marathon victims, I was undone. I’m scared to die – I want more time. And yet, a little boys life was cut short. I shared that I would trade places with him. And I would. Let him have more beautiful days. Who am I to think I am to be afforded more time? We wonder why the innocent are taken. Why the ‘good’ die young. Then while I’m sitting and writing and counting my blessings and interrupted by the anger next door – a thought occurs – do people who are ungrateful, toxic, angry and cruel need more time here because they haven’t figured it out yet? They don’t know that today was a beautiful day?