If it was Friday, it was housework. Dusting, vacuuming, scrubbing, sweeping, mopping—I did it all. Sometimes laundry spilled over into Saturdays. For decades, it had been that way—but then change upset my routine.

It was another Friday, June 30, 2017, sunny and humid. If I didn’t hurry with my vacuuming, I’d be late for my Pilates hour. What pride I took when others commented upon my toned eighty-one year-old body; it had served me well, despite rheumatoid arthritis.

Suddenly, pain knifed me as I hit the hardwood floor in the dining area, my sandal looped around the cord of the vacuum cleaner. I rolled upon my back and howled, then sat up to assess the damage. I had fallen before but it had been a few years. My left elbow quivered as if massaged by sea winds; and my crazed left hip snarled into the universe—I needed help. During the ambulance ride to the emergency room, I wondered if this fall would be a life-changing event. It was.

In time, the fractures healed, but lost was the limited energy of my former life. Housework was out of the question.

Then I remembered Chrissy who had washed my grimy windows the previous year. Yes, she could help me—but her help far exceeded cleaning my house. Her quiet manner, her cheerfulness, her attention to detail have freshened my living space, handled minor repairs, watered my houseplants, polished whatever needed to be polished, even decorated for Christmas. How I look forward to Fridays and her warm hug.