Postcard from the vaccine dispensary

I won't give you an image that you can print but rather one you can perhaps feel: when I arrived at my vaccine appointment yesterday, I promptly began to tear up. 

I wasn't tired. I hadn't had a bad day. I suppose my hair looked like it always does and what of it? That wouldn't make me cry. No one yelled, bad news hadn't searched me out and found me yesterday. 

No, I am simply ready to live again. 

I am weeping over all the days I haven't been living. 

And that was the inspiration behind every tearful greeting of thanks I dispensed at the cavernous Oakdale Theater-turned-get-your-old-life-back-here station; to the door clerk who took my name, to the Hartford Healthcare official with her pink tweed jacket who checked my ID and gave me that precious vaccine card, to the nurse who gave me the shot -- he looked almost bewildered by my profuse thanks -- to the soldier on his phone who didn't happen to help me other than his simple presence helped me. 

My left shoulder is sore but not nearly as much as my spirit. Friends, let's live again (and H/T to George Bailey whose bit of dialogue from the second bridge scene is forever stuck in my head).

-30-