My baby sister is here from the East coast for a visit.
The best of times.
She has a job which requires her to be on her feet.
And she has a sprained ankle.
The worst of times.
But the story of her ankle has a hilarious twist.
If you'll pardon the pun . . .
Baby Sister is a runner.
She lives in a remote area and, when family, employment and weather allow, runs in that beautiful place she calls home.
Woodsy trails, old forest and the slight tang of salt in the air.
Where was I?
On this particular day, she was rounding a curve, heading for home.
Just ahead of her, the school bus had just dropped off her son and a few of his friends.
They acknowledged her presence with a wave and started walking along the road.
And that's when she hit something.
It sent her tumbling.
Her ankle took the brunt of the force.
The four teenagers saw her go down.
Three of them sprinted towards her.
Concern writ large.
One . . . didn't.
Now I don't want to suggest here that he is uncaring or unfeeling.
Because he isn't.
In fact, he is a very affectionate and loving boy.
But the fact remains that, while the others were hurrying to her assistance, he was bent over his phone – texting.
His friends got her up and, working together, managed to help her hobble the short distance home.
Seated there, her foot up, she picked up her phone.
She had a text.
It was from her son.
Well, caring in 2012 . . .