I scanned the letter from my doctor about my recent bone density test. I knew going in what the result would be. My mother fell several times as she got older and unsteady on her feet. Never broke a bone. In fact, with the exception of my brother who cracked his thumb skidding around a vacant parking lot on a go-cart back in the ’60s, and my daughter who snapped her arm at five years old in a fall off a porch ledge, our family was fracture free.
Towards the bottom of the letter were instructions to call to make a plan going forward. A plan? For what? I reread the first paragraph. There it was: “…you have osteoporosis.” Continue reading
I practiced my new/old sport around the neighborhood for a few days until I felt confident to take Tallulah out for a spin on the trail. When the day came, I wrestled the rack onto the trunk of my sedan, secured my new companion into place and headed out. 
On a long weekend visit to my daughter’s home in the California foothills, I shared an entry from my bucket list.
My earliest memories of my big brother are of him barreling through the back door to bum a dollar for gas off Dad. He always seemed to have his head under the hood of a car back then.
