A short short story of no small consequence...

The warm morning breeze created a vortex with the remains of winter leaves. The dust devil collided with concrete steps and the leaves were scattered, dead weight, on the sidewalk. The screen door to Ellen's dining room vibrated in the excitement of Spring, warped and old as it was and loose on its hinges. Still, it brought in the air while keeping out the flies and for this she was thankful. When you leaned on it to watch the trees swaying while lost in dreaming, it wasn't cold against your skin. This was a comfort.

There were many small comforts allotted to her that she took notice of, life's little compensations for the misery it wrought. True joy was something experienced in small doses that were meant to last a lifetime. The milestones. Birth. Love. Achievement. Ephipanys. Friendship. They come in God's time, lasting only a moment and etched in your mind like lines on glass and just as brittle, delicate and shining. But small comforts there were many. They renewed themselves daily and were of endless variety. By these she knew that God was as close as breathing.

The warmth of the sun on your face, so bright that when you close your eyes they are two red moons. A robin's song. The smell of saltwater licking your toes on a quiet beach. The sound of a brook over stones. The palatial rise of mountains. The taste of an apple as your teeth break through the crisp green flesh. A toddler's kiss and the touch of a baby's hand. Moonlight. The feel and smell of soft, clean cotton against your skin. Books and music. The texture of paint on paper. Storms and rain. A blanket of green grass. The seasons, and the cycle of earth's turning.

These, and so many more things made her feel graced by God, and she wondered at His cruelty as well as His compassion. "Why are we tormented so?", she said to herself. And then, as if to admonish her momentary ingratitude, the mug of coffee she had been drinking slipped from her hands. The shards of pottery cut into her feet and piping hot liquid waves splashed her legs. Ellen cried out in pain and cursed her clumsiness at life. She gingerly stepped away from the broken peices that littered the floor and soaked a dishtowel in cold water.

This she applied to the burning red whorls on her skin. The coolness only temporarily allayed the pain and it seered into her conciousness again. It appeared that she had second degree burns. The cuts on her feet were shallow and already closing tho. A dark red crust had formed on the surface, along with purplish-blue bruises that tendered the top of her right foot. She wrapped her legs in a thin layer of gauze, slipped into sandles and drove the short distance to the Immediate Care section of the hospital.

Ellen was escorted into a waiting room by the nurse on duty, who took a short history and scribbled notes on a clipboard. Then she was told to wait for the doctor who would be with her "shortly". She knew what this meant. She would suffer for at least 15 minutes more while he was still tending to the last walk-in. Her eyes drifted to a calender on the wall in a vain attempt to put her mind on something-anything-else. In small letters, barely noticable in the corner of the numbered day box, were the words "Good Friday". A shock of shame came over her, as she had completely forgotten. The doctor came in a rush, introduced himself and examined her burns. Tears welled in Ellen's eyes and he asked if she would like something for the pain. "No", was her reply. "I'm fine, it's nothing-nothing at all..."