Betty

She knows not why she was born. She knows not her purpose in life. She knows not why she is here.

And yet she is happy. She plays. She frolics like a puppy though she is middle aged. She nibbles limes and makes a face at its sour taste. She runs. She explores. She chases almost everything that moves. She is curious, putting her nose into everything worth investigating. She guards her territory fearlessly. She fights. She gets angry. She feels. She breathes. She lives. She exists.

She is the way she is because, I suspect, she knows that she is safe, protected, taken care of. She is loved.

I should be more like her. Except. She has me to love her. I have no one.