It was a game I used to play as a girl.
I would link arms and try to walk in step with another person.
We might begin just fine.
Our steps would be in sync with each other.

But then all of a sudden, our steps are off.
Our steps do not match.
We would try to quickly get back in the rhythm of the other person’s gait.
By this time we were laughing so hard it was next to impossible.

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I did not play with dolls very much as a little girl.
I had a Barbie doll, but she was not a favorite of mine.
It was more fun having the clothes and accessories.
I kept them in a little box that had hangers and a place for the shoes.

I did not play with a baby doll very much either.
I was not the girl you would see carrying a doll with a bottle for feeding.
I had a little coach for my doll and even had a small bathtub to give her a bath.
Mostly, those things stayed in my room since other things took up my playtime.

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She calls me Miss Gina.
Before she decided on that name, I was the lady with the red lips.
She always gives me that little wave, the one when her hand is close to her face.
The wave that only I can see.

She came to mind when I found the magnets that used to be on our refrigerator.
The magnets that won’t stick any more since we got a stainless steel model.
Some of the old magnets my daughter brought back to college for her dorm room.
One magnet, that was a favorite of hers, went to my little friend.

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I watched her struggle with her tiny shopping cart.
Her few items were inside.
Her cane was hung over the side close by in case she needed it.
She had the cart to hold onto, so she was fine.

But she wasn’t fine.
Her left side was showing signs of a past stroke.
She was maneuvering the shopping cart with her one good hand.
What she accomplished, amazed me.

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We are bombarded with information all day long.
Information that matters.
Information that is nothing more than trivia taking up room in our brain.

There is never a respite.
Twenty-four hour news, 24/7 availability on our phones.
Alerts, alarms, and notifications.

You have to be intentional to turn it off.
You have to choose to put the phone on silent.
You have to be fine with not knowing the second someone wants to get a hold of you.

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It was my food shopping day.
I had to run errands in another area.
I knew that the grocery store where I usually shop had a store near there.
I decided to go to that one.

Do everything at the same time.
Consolidate trips, my husband would always tell our children.
It’s funny how a different store can look so similar.
The stores tend to be designed the same way.

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I was driving on the turnpike to pick my daughter up from college.
She was coming home for the weekend.
My husband had the Easy Pass in his car.
Consequently, I had to go through the toll booth the old fashioned way.

I actually like going through the toll booth because there is a person at the window.
Not a traffic light that turns green with the words, Thank you.
An actual person who smiles, or not, who talks, or not.
A person who is there.

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I was in line at the store with the bulls-eye logo.
I was standing in line, two people behind the person at the cash register.
The woman in front was with her precocious little boy.

The little boy was trying to get the cashier’s attention.
He had mine; but he didn’t realize it yet.
The cashier was efficient and business-like as she checked out this large purchase.

The mom with a friendly face was checking to make sure she was charged correctly.
The little boy tried desperately to get the cashier to notice him.
He now had the man’s attention that was in front of me.

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Today, my husband and I are married for thirty-three years.
Three decades plus three.
Not the milestone anniversary the card stores celebrate.
Yet a milestone nonetheless.

A journey was begun all those years ago.
Two lives came together as one to begin a new life.
Five children were born of that union.
Joys, sorrows, peace, conflict, laughter, tears: the ebb and flow of a life lived together.

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It is my Monday morning ritual.
A ritual that is disrupted whenever our family is on vacation.
The consistency is important.
It matters.

To many, winding my clocks may seem trivial and unimportant.
To me, it is a wonderful way to start my week.
The sound of the clicks as I use the special key to wind them, is somehow comforting.
The same key that has been used for years, ever since I was expecting my first child.

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