I have had several people over the past week ask me if something was wrong. It hit me today that what they were seeing is how much pain I am in because of this physical therapy. I believe quite strongly that there is something fundamentally wrong with that.

But rather than expound upon my discomfort or worry further about my now sixth asthma attack since the car fire, I shall dwell upon J.

I arrived home to discover a vintage Campbell's soup barrel tin on my porch. Tucked inside were several "I'm-thinking-of-you-and-want-you-to-know-it" gifts. The best of these is a small replica of a vintage Dr. Pepper serving tin. I promptly put it on the counter of my kitchen in a spot that had clearly been waiting for it.

A short while ago, J sent an email telling me that she figured I had been writing off-line. So well does she know me even though we are miles and months apart. Each time I have become absent, muting my own voice, it is because I fear that all my words are seen merely as massive amounts of wallowing instead of musing on my day. Who would want to read this stuff?

I can just hear J: "It's your life. You should write whatever you wish."

Well, today, I am writing about the impeccible timing of J. I am writing about how she always manages to sense when a tea bag or letter or Dr. Pepper patch will brighting an otherwise trying time. I am writing about how small things can reap great rewards in the life of a friend.