finding avian reassurance

while Dora's backpack bleeds for us all

The first thought? My phone. Nope, it’s expensive and could easily identify me.

The second? My keys! Nope, same as the phone.

I looked around. The orange flags hung from their 3/4” dowels, officious safety hatches ready to be flung.

Oh sure, they were there so you could signal to traffic intentions to cross the street. When the cars didn’t stop for me crossing with my children, they made great projectiles.

I’ve had some irate drivers in too much of a rush to stop for children stop and confront me about safety and damage to his car.

With my children beside me all I could do was giggle and tell them it’s a ‘them problem.’

My problem? Grip strength. Sometimes those flags are heavy. Waving them can take it’s toll on the arms of an old man like. Once the tennis elbow and the arthritis kicks in, flags fly and speeders feel it.

Aging is a terrible thing. I can’t run like I could and as my grip strength decreases, I carry a much smaller sack of fucks with me when I’m out about in the world.

But thi…