WINTER SUN
On a pleasant and sunny afternoon, I sit on a bright red deck chair, savoring the warmth of the winter sun, as I enjoying a glass of bourbon and a fine cigar.
Six days earlier, ten inches of fluffy white snow rendered this patio unusable. It was dreary, cold, and covered by winter's frozen white cloak. My deck chair had become a mound of snow.
As I sit, I reflect on images of those convalescing in asylums, sitting near windows, in high-backed oak chairs with wooden wheels, woven cane seats and backs, blankets wrapped about their legs, absorbing the warmth of the sun, and aimlessly staring at a glistening blanket of freshly fallen snow, blue skies overhead. Though their eyes are open, do they really see?
I further reflect on images of white uniformed attendants moving those convalescing to spots where the sun's rays will shine directly upon them, warming them. I do not recall anyone smiling, not those in high-backed wooden chairs wheeled to bask under the sun's warming rays, nor the attendants who wheel them to where they can relish the comforts of the sun on that cold winter day.
For five days I was ill. During that illness, the snow melted. To deeply inhale the fresh and brisk winter air pleases me. I have no attendant. I position myself precisely where I desire to sit in order to absorb the bright rays rendering the sun's warmth. I have no blanket wrapped about my legs. My chair is red, not oak with cane inserts. My chair has no wheels.
These things considered; I acknowledge that I am not convalescing or recovering in an asylum, and I am not confined to an oak wheelchair with woven cane seat and back and with tall wooden wheels encircled with solid black rubber tires. I am not rolled about by white uniformed attendants unable to smile. Comprehending these facts, I am pleased to declare it is my good fortune to not be an invalid under anyone's domain or care and that I continue to be able to move about freely.
I enjoy another glass of bourbon and watch my breath, filled with smoke which I inhaled from my cigar, become visible mist that hangs and lingers in the cold winter air and delivers a fragrant aroma to my nostrils. I am alive. I may still be sane. Therefore, unlike the others, I smile.
