My Wish is his Command

My Wish is his Command


I was rear-ended a few days ago on the interstate.
Big truck.
Bam. 

So hard my scrunching flew off:)

Whiplash. 

Over in a flash.

My Vandy doc returned my email with a call: “You need to go to a Dickson walk-in clinic. You should be assessed.”

I laughed, “That’s what my sister said.”

So I hightailed to one. 
They took an x-ray just in case. 
(Who knew: I have arthritis in my neck) 

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“Southern women like their men religious and a little mad.”*

Tony treated me like a queen, first insisting on meeting me at the clinic, then taping the back light in, while I was with the doc so I’d be safe. Following me home.

My two loves

I’m fine, though a bit rattled at how quickly it can happen. And feeling a bit vulnerable. The ordeal has reminded me how lucky I am to have a man love me so. I take it for granted—nightly foot rubs to ease my neurotherapy, tending to every aspect of the farm, cooking my breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Bringing me strawberry Twizzlers from Dollar General.

Gotta go, Tony just fixed dinner.

Women: “Always wear your invisible crown.”

* author Michael Shaara