“I think I better go home.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t feel quite right.”

And so I left the small town fall festival just minutes after arriving, but long enough to capture straw in my shoes, dust in my hair, and pink on my cheeks. Not the sun pink, I think, because 15 minutes later, when I drug the festival in my house, I felt achy. I went straight to bed, did not pass go, and hunkered there for a solid week. With a 103 temp. And no one to take care of me.

Even a year ago, everyone maintained their stay-away-COVID masks and distances or at least mindsets. Of course. I don’t know if I had COVID. Maybe. Probably. Nevertheless, I was left to myself. First time to face sick all alone.

Talk about missing Bill. I needed water. I needed tissue. I needed a toilet. I needed a checked-on. I needed him. I shivered, sweat, and cried.

Broken heart on top of broken body.

Amazingly, I survived. I am very alive and very well. And today I’m going back to the small town fall festival. I’ll probably bring the festival home again, but this time, I’ll shake it off before bringing it in. This time, I’m ready to hold my littlebears’ hands, buy a treat, soak up some sun. I’m ready for a new memory. A new well-in-every-way memory.