My prescription bottle is empty. That suggests that the inflammation in my innards has resolved. Kind of amazing that no one needed to climb into my colon to brush away clumps, the way I remove lint from underneath the throat plate on my trusty sewing machine after a long week of piecing. 

The thing that is left behind is gratitude. In fact I have sent loving thoughts to my abdomen more often in the last ten days than in the previous five years. Who takes a moment to appreciate an internal organ? Someone whose systems are balking. 

The other day there was a flurry of snow. Not enough to make a snowball but enough to make the air bite. I rolled up behind the trash truck, and felt compassion for those steely men who work all day in the elements. They had worn bright orange slickers and waders to protect them, but their faces were probably cold. I waved as I passed, and wafted them a dose of thanks. 

Their job too can go unnoticed, until a holiday falls on pick up day and we all grapple with extra garbage. It seems that ridding ourselves of the dispensables is the natural prelude to the luxury of being clean.