Imagine my shock, then, when last fall I discovered that we were due to deliver another pivot. I hadn’t even known we were expecting.

Now, 50 years later, I’m beginning to realize how much age and time have altered my mother’s memory. She retold the story of the great river crossing during a recent family Zoom call, and I was stunned. She misremembered every detail. She called the river a “stream” and Easter’s great leap a “hop,” and she claimed she’d clapped and cheered my landing – not in awe – but to keep me from crying.

I’m not ashamed to admit that one of the happiest days of my life was in high school, and it was a revenge day. What’s worse, it was a revenge day exacted against an innocent person who had no idea I even had a stake in his tragedy.

The point of this whole story is that my mom is downsizing. Downsizing is an unemotional word that actually means “ripping your heart out.” Downsizing is emptying your life out of closets and boxes and drawers and arranging it onto the floor in piles. Downsizing is deciding which pieces of your past should be donated, sold or thrown away.

Having only one chicken has put me in an awkward position. Can I even call myself a chicken lady anymore? Can I wear my chicken pajamas? Can I buy the chicken socks I’ve had my eye on? I’m guessing not. If my grammatical calculations are correct, owning one bird means I should be called a hen lady now. That puts me just one step away from being called an old hen – a step that’s way too close for my comfort.

And yet I cannot divorce my freezers. Just know, if we ever have a weeklong power outage, the Colemans will be hosting the greatest barbecue ever visible from outer space.