Nick and I are joining a gym. I'm quiet, gentle-seeming...but there's power there, oh yes, there's power. Though, after last week, when Nick went out of his way to irritate me during one of my first runs post surgery, I questioned the wisdom in instituting a workout routine with this man...

...And the circumstances by which a court would rule a homicide justifiable.

I've been very upbeat as of late...it's as though I've turned a corner, a crucial corner. I'm sure the endorphins don't hurt either, but it's more than that. My husband left last Autumn, not even a year ago, yet it seems like a lifetime away. I realized today that it was just that, the world spun differently then. I've also delighted in the advent of the American Quilt Days, as I call them. There's something homey and welcoming about a quilt, an article made by loving hands to keep you warm. It reminds me of an email Mom once sent when she wanted to send me a comforter for my bed. She said against my protests, "Nonsense - I want to do this for you - then, when you snuggle in at night, I am keeping you warm." As much as I love Summer, the Fall is the my favorite season...the crispness in the air, the warm, vibrant hues in the tapestry of our days—oh, I just love it all. Mom did too.

And it is one of my haunting conversations that I had with her one late October day in 2005, as she languidly navigated her car down an echoing avenue, the curled tawny leaves scuttling to and fro. She sighed romantically—we both had a tendency to paint the world pretty...only way to live—, "Oh, how I love the Fall!"

I sat shotgun, feeling the lowest I've ever felt...unwanted, unsure, struggling in vain. I mumbled, "I'll never love the Fall again," permanently putting a damper on her airy optimism. I remember it so clearly, for it is a statement I will always regret having made. I was my mother's cheerleader, and yet for a few weeks, I was a self-focused ninny. I know it was a statement that haunted her as well...and as the life began to leave her body in those final days, I wet her pillow with my tears and whispered, "What can I give you now?"

She opened her eyes, in her maze of being lucid and then not, and said with perfect clarity, "Love the Fall." It meant more than loving the time of year, it meant loving the fight in spite of the blows...it meant loving life. My brother has often struggled with depression, suicidal thoughts. They stopped when, early in my mother's diagnosis, he told her how much he wanted to die...she replied, "Hmm. And here I am wanting so much to live."

I noted this morning that three years ago today, September twenty-second, 2003, I flew in to surprise my mother before her surgery on the twenty-ninth, a week later. What came to follow was a difficult recovery and the opportunity to grow closer than ever to the woman who gave me life. I said in my words to her during the funeral that I didn't know real love until our roles were reversed, and I was her guardian, her caretaker, and her protector. I cannot share with you the beauty of such a responsibility...I can only tell you that we're not given more than we can handle, but we're often shielded from the breadth of our strength.

Tomorrow, if the rain stays away, I want to go to the Farmer's Market...I am craving squash and sweet potatoes—by the way, The States are confused. We have SWEET POTATOES here. Yams are seldom grown in the United States, and are mostly available in Latin America—and apples. Ah, Fall produce! Love it. As we had dinner the other night, Nick pushed the Brussels sprouts around his plate and relayed, "See, when I was young, our Brussels sprouts were coated in oil..." To which I apologized and reminded that I was a vegetable purest. Nick corrected on a near-snort, "You're a vegetable snob."

I can't take it too seriously. The man smells, head to toe, like pretzels. Pretzels are his after work snack. He shyly admitted only days ago that he attaches the pretzel sack like a feedbag to his face and gorges. Oh, Nicky...still has me laughing. It was a tender, cuddling moment when I noticed the scent behind his ears and, curious, began sniffing further. I was impressed with this pretzely presence.

I sit here and sigh, at a place of perfect contentedness in the face of recent upheaval. I guess it leads me to one conclusion:

I do love the Fall, I really do. Time to get back to me.

I get a lot of mail...like a LOT, a lot. It isn't friendly mail, per se...mainly medical professionals relaying that while I'm still messed up, they did the best they could with what they had to work with and why don't I come back for a follow up because there's a living room set that really caught their eye the other day.

When it isn't one of them, it's some whatnot from my lovely insurance company saying that since the promised first-born is probably a no-go, payback for all of the butt-covering has now become MY SOUL.

Nonetheless, whatever the tone of my mail, it is still greater in volume than Nick's. I am sure this is a point of contention, but believe me when I say that I would rather get Shopper Stoppers! Ads from Charter Communications! Cat calls from Citibank, trying to line my pockets with make believe money!

Junk mail is wonderful because you can open it...

...Or not.

You can gnaw on it disapprovingly while watching Rachael Ray attempt to go low-carb...or use it to pick up that mushy purple goop that paraded around as a yellow onion last May.

You can even use it as a buffer between a singularly unattractive insect and the bottom of your shoe. One should be able to squeeze the life out of a bug without having antennae and legs caught in the tread of the orangest shoes ever. You know what I'm saying?

Junk mail from people who don't know you and have no interest in knowing you?...not so bad! The Grim Reaper HMO looking to collect on its share of the pie?...not so good!

But today was a kick in the teeth, seriously. And for a chick who's got a wisdom tooth extraction scheduled for Friday, it's even more hardcore. I pulled the catalogues from the box and walked slowly back to the house. We're both leafers...we fan through printed materials and after we've looked at the pictures we toss them. Mmm. Pictures. Words ruin the karma.

One catalogue is addressed to me, the other to Nick. With interest I note that Nick is on an Eddie Bauer mailing list...God I love dating a metrosexual! With anticipation, I turn the catalogue addressed to myself. Something from New Balance? The Baker's Catalogue? No, don't be silly. I, the prissy, self-proclaimed princess and the all-out froufrou girly-girl, received the Highland Woodworking catalogue. My father would be so proud. I'm a pair of bib overalls and couple of pig tails shy (and a few teeth too many) of having a "Mae" after my name and several extra syllables stuffed in the middle.

Please, my dear health maintenance organization, anybody, didn't you want my soul today? It's largely unused? Still in its original packing?