The day I got my three vaccinations, I asked if I should have the one for RSV – not remembering that not everyone can have it.
“Are you sixty-five?” the pharmacist asked, brows raised in polite query.
“Oh. Nope,” I laughed. “I’m not yet so privileged to have lived that long.”
“And it is a privilege, isn’t it?” he mused, swabbing my arm.
Yes. It is. And as I scowl at my sugar-frosted hair – which I usually have streaked with various shades of purple and blue – I am grateful, indeed, for the privilege… even if my hair looks goofy, because silver hair has the consistency of WIRE and really likes to stick up. ::sigh::
you silver fox –
this hair that’s going white?
call it the icing on the cake
I often think of my grandmother, when I think of the work that I do, and the life that I live. She left school in the third grade so I could have my MFA. Such thanks for that word, progress…
they only worked:
school was not for brown kids,
but she raised her own to want more.