Numbers

The dog was whining but the coffee was made and daughter was on the phone to deliver the day's writing prompt. Our puppy senses that this time spent with daughter writing is precious, more precious than playing fetch or wrangling his chew toy in a game of tug of war. He demands to be heard and it lands him in his crate, if only for ten minutes. And then, poised, ready and waiting over my keyboard, she tells me the prompt -- numbers. My fingers hit the keys, bringing form to threads, notions and incomplete thoughts, resurrecting memories filed in the farthest corners of my archive. Here we go.

Numbers. Measuring, quantifying, assigning value. They can be simple as an age or as complicated as a variable mortgage. 

Numbers were my friend, and then they weren’t. In grade school I shone brightly with sums and multiplications but we started to part ways with the introduction of long division.

And then there was algebra – a mix of x’s and y’s and unknowns. Mrs. Gurney passed me with 51% to ensure I would not be a repeat customer.

And years later, I became a sales manager with commission and reward tied to goals – numbers! Calculating, estimating and ultimately putting a dollar sign in front of those numbers and suddenly they all made sense. 

I don’t have a favourite number. But apparently the devil does. I lived at 666 Moffat Street and I enjoyed the attention that it got whenever I cited my address. The devil’s house! 

I remember the anticipation of turning ten – double digits – as if somehow it heralded to the world that I was no longer a skinny little kid. The extra candles didn’t change that. 

And now I no longer race towards the next age, the next marker of time lived. Those numbers are not my friend but we have come to an understanding. The age I am at this very moment is my favourite – my favourite number. Because it is the only thing of which I am certain. I am. Now. 

And there is no number to quantity my gratitude, for it is infinite.