Frame - Ticker - Creek

Framed against the soft light pouring through the window was the inspiring vistas of Ticker Creek.  Tiny and perhaps not as spectacular as other bodies of water, Ticker Creek had its own charm, and I leaned against the headboard of my bed, cup of coffee warming my hands, and just watched.

This was my first day of vacation, and I was SO ready.  I really needed this time to myself.  My job is stressful and painful and aggravating and rewarding and I love it.  But sometimes, well, you just have to get away, you know?

So, I was just savoring the time alone, watching Ticker Creek flow along like some sort of image of life, my life, flowing along, over rocks, and sand, and fish, and bugs.

Anyway, here I was, as I say, watching the creek and thinking up all sorts of metaphors about my own life that was currently filled with sand and bugs, when there was a short, staccato tap on the door of my room.

"Miz Martin?"  A hesitant voice said, "Miz Martin?  You awake?"

Ricky opened the door quietly, bearing a wonderful tray of pancakes, sausages and fresh fruit.  "I thought you might like some breakfast."

Ah, the blessings of vacation!  "Yes, Ricky," I said, "that would be just lovely!"

Ricky put the tray and turned to leave.  "Ricky,"  I said.

He stopped and turned around.

"Can you stay for a minute?"

"Miz Martin, I can't stay.  You know I can't."  But he did not leave.  He stayed in the door, looking at me propped up in bed.  "Really, Miz Martin.  Not this morning.  Really."  But he did not leave.

He never leaves.  Ricky stays, and with a reluctant sigh, he comes over, gently lifts the blanket away from my misshapen and atrophied legs, sits down at the edge of the bed.  He pulls a bottle of lotion from his pocket (always prepared, my Ricky, like a Boy Scout), and gently rubs my feet and legs.  I can't feel anything, of course, not from the waist down, since the accident.  But I like to look at him rubbing my feet, and remember what it felt like, and I am content for one more day.