In the past couple of weeks, my saint of a friend next door, has been besieged with trouble:
Two of her last pecan trees have lost enough of themselves to block the street and are now on their last legs.
George, her innocent-looking little kitty, chewed all the vents while hiding from humans behind the dryer, turning her laundry room into a sauna.
Her alarm system broke--again.
Her $40 Fit Bit died right in the middle of doing its job, counting her steps.
Her hot water heater also died.
As did her AC, requring her to "spend her children's inheritance" to replace it.
Add to all that, the final blow: her hopeful pomegranates have all turned out to be duds.
If you saw her walking down the street, sassy as ever, her gait lively, her moves evidencing her loyalty to yoga, you'd never know that she's survived a Biblical attack on her sanity and bank account. She looks on the bright side: her computer, car, and phone all seem to be doing what they came here to do. She still has food and water and a roof--which she will remind us is not available to so many.
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