“I would never again”

“It was May, then, June, and I remember how I would stand and look out the window at the sidewalk below and watch the young women—my age—in their spring clothes, out on their lunch breaks; I could see their heads moving in conversation, their blouses rippling in the breeze,” says Lucy Barton in Elizabeth Strout’s new novel My Name Is Lucy Barton.

“I thought how when I got out of the hospital I would never again walk down the sidewalk without giving thanks for being one of those people, and for many years I did that.”

Lucy’s memory made an impact on me. Last year when I was in the hospital with a shattered femur, I vowed to remember the value of simple pleasures—like taking a walk and climbing the stairs in a movie theater. But, sometimes, already, I forget to count my blessings.

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