I lay on my frozen driveway for forty-two minutes before I realized the truth: I could die here, and the only thing that would notice would be the automatic porch light flicking off.
At 78, you don’t just “fall.” You shatter. One minute I was reaching for the mail—hoping for a real letter, not just another credit card offer—and the next, …
👇 👇 👇 👇 👇
