My days are counted in milligrams. In Zantac and Zyrtec, ibuprofen and caffeine.

My weeks are counted in dishes. How many clean ones are left and how long has it been since I washed a load?

My semester is counted in pages. How many must I read, how many must I write. How many am I behind on?

My heart counts in days. One hundred and eighty-two since I last held my husband. Perhaps one hundred more until I see him again. Eighteen until Thanksgiving. Forty-eight until we go home for Christmas.

Counting blessings gets a little harder. I can’t count that high. In milligrams, pages, days or dishes.