I start my morning, every morning, by making my bed. It sets the trend of the day for accomplishing tasks (how ever simple they may be) that exemplify my current need, at age 74, to prove to myself that I continue to be a participant in my life. My next move toward awakening is brushing my teeth; aging teaches one, daily, the importance of the old choppers for, without them, I can’t imagine I’d have much reason to continue with this charade of illusions called life and food. And my first intellectual endeavor of the day is to check my Facebook drama, limiting my time to no more than 20 minutes. Because I paint and draw and take pictures, I like to see people’s comments. I write and draw and even paint in a journal for however long that feels good. And then I have my breakfast. I like my mornings; I realize, more and more lately, that I have a limited number left to savour and so I do. I do.