Recount your blessings, my mother says.

I recall my walker. Blessed, I say.

I had the walls close in on me one year and my walker stretched her arms and her feet, mustered all her strength, while helpless I lay. My walker determined and resilient drew away the walls before they drew in on me.

Last week I lost my breath, my inhales and exhales. I reached for my lungs and they were not there. I was ready to leave but my walker had leapt. Already knowing she had trekked for God knows how long and returned with breath, inhales and exhales, life I had thought escaped me.

On Tuesday, no one showed up. Before I could feel alone, my walker clasped my hand and walked with me home.

Blessed I am, I repeat to my mother.