Words can help buoy you up. Making every minute count. Making memories. Only the snobbish and arrogant, the ever so healthy, mock aphorisms as trite. When things seem impossibly gloomy, when I don’t think I can take much more bad news, I turn to another wicked old friend. In the past I called her the emphysemic pit pony, because she has short legs and used to wheeze when she pushed my wheelchair uphill. That was long ago, before getting old became unavoidable and before I bought a power chair for going any distance. Now she’s over 70, still has short legs, still smokes one roll-up a day and employs the most dogged, brilliant, multipurpose saying of all:
Every day above ground is a good day.
How my heart sings 