My Third Leg

To travel means meeting people, as well as places. One of the people we've met in Madeira is an 81-year-old dynamo with orangey-red hair, bright blue eyes and a contagious smile. 

She brings people together, plans levada walks and other excursions. When there's a steep descent, she leads the group. As I was mincing my way down a trail of rain-slicked stones, she offered me her walking stick. "Take it," she said. "It's like a third leg."

I found a stick in the forest so she could keep her own, but she got me thinking about the idea of a third leg. What would I do if I had one? Walk faster? Move more sure-footedly, with a tripod-like balance? 

I like the idea of a spare or two, but it's greedy to ask for more limbs when the ones I have are working fine.  If I did have a third leg, though, I hope I would offer it to a friend. When I did, I would see in my mind's eye the cheerful, lined face of the woman who offered me hers. 

(My third leg, above.)