The local school board has been good to us. They have made decisions on Benjamin's behalf over the past eighteen years. There really is no adequate way I can thank them. And yet to let that sense of overwhelm stand in the way of trying would be unthinkable. 

 

My family arrived at the last board meeting with gifts and cards, so that they can at least see the face of the young man whose needs have been on their agenda for so long. Benjamin told them a joke, and they laughed. As we headed to the car I cried. His childhood has been a long road and their support has been constant. More than likely the members have come and gone over almost two decades, meaning there are others who slid away without any expression of gratitude from me. Perhaps I could remedy that. 

 

This particular relationship feels dramatically lopsided. They have done much for us. We so little for them. Such inequities pop up everywhere I take the time to look. The other day our power went out during a tornado watch, and I mentally sent my appreciation to any stalwart souls out there in torrential rain who were climbing slippery poles to urge my lights to turn back on. Which they did. 

 

The doctor who studied for half a lifetime to prepare for reconstructing my inner ear bones is another. I gifted him with a lap sized quilt, which took me less time that he spent scrubbing up. Well, not quite. 

 

The photographers whose work graces my stories are an example of generosity. They put on shoes in the early morning, headed in search of beauty, or a child's laughter. I sit indoors with a mug of warm chai and scroll through the bounty of their discoveries.  I have on occasion tried to give tangible form to my gratitude, but alas we are still talking about gross inequities. 

 

The backlog of opulence that has been thrust in my lap over the past sixty years could fuel my efforts to repay my benefactors for the next sixty.