What a difference a year makes

 A year ago Jim and I joined our children and grandchildren in Roatan, a Caribbean island belonging to Honduras. Then we flew to the mainland to visit Xiomara’s home town and her relatives.

I got the usual traveller’s complaint and made it through two more family reunions (in the excitement of the lessening of the pandemic, three branches of our family planned travel reunions.).

I didn’t recover with my usual speed. Actually, I don’t usually get sick, so I didn’t realize that 104 degree temperature is dangerously high. I went on our annual Church campout because I didn’t want to disappoint our four grandkids: we’d planned for it all year.

At the campground, I fell three times on the gently rolling lawn. In a state of total denial, I blamed my old sneakers, with worn-slick soles. Turned out it was a kidney infection.

Anticipating the campout this year, with our two grandkids from the Bronx, I felt an inexplicable dread. I finally realized the anxiety was caused by a fear of a repetition of last year.

But I hadn’t been to Honduras this year and I didn’t fall once at the campground. Instead of sitting, exhausted, in my camp chair by the pond, I swam some laps and paddled with my granddaughter. We're all looking forward to next year.