Talking to Myself Again

Talking to yourself 
is easier than talking to other people,
who often aren't listening anyway.
I may not always do 
what I tell myself I should,
but that's not a matter of not listening
as much as ignoring myself. 
Last night I told myself
If I got up early enough
I'd make the trip to Costco 
because I wanted to get a wreath for the front door;
theirs are beautiful and cheaper than most places.
I told myself when I got back,
maybe we could put up the outside decorations,
assuming I still had energy left,
and could convince my husband.
The Costco visit went fine;
I spent more than I'd planned,
but nothing unusual about that.
This time it wasn't my fault—
they had the Christmas stamps front and center
when I walked in the store,
which reminded me that I needed to make out cards,
so I'd better pick them up now 
and save a few pennies.
Up and down aisles,
trying to find the things on my short list,
because for some reason they decided
to move everything to someplace else.
Leaving the store, 
I asked myself where I'd parked,
and surprisingly I remembered.
Then as I was loading up the trunk,
a lovely Hispanic man and his grown son
stopped to ask if I'd like their help
putting the case of soda and ice tea in my car.
That was a nice surprise
that kept me smiling the whole ride home.
I drove home thinking how wonderful it was
to find someone showing kindness to a stranger.
And then I laughed at myself,
wondering if I looked so old 
they thought I needed the help.
I told my husband all about it when I got home.
I'm not sure he was really listening,
but he said that was nice.
He must have been listening earlier though,
when I said we should start decorating outside,
because he had brought a few things up from the basement.
Of course, he didn't bring up the hook for the wreath—
which he knew was the main reason I went to Costco,
but that was okay. 
I put the wreath on the door
and my little Santa gnome on the street lamp.
I told myself that was enough for today.
Tomorrow is another day,
though I heard it's supposed to rain
so we really should have pushed ourselves,
but this poem wasn't going to write itself.
At least that's what I told myself. 

~Elise Skidmore ©2025