Sundays. My favorite day. As my grandmother would say, "Why, I never..."
I suppose I was brought up under the impression that half statements were actually full statements.
I'm not sure this has served me well.
This may explain some things.
|beets? gone. apple/rasp pie? gone. sweet potato w/ nutty crust? gone. bean salad? one more serving.|
lentils? gawd, there's still a pot full..
It's been a fine week so far, and coming home to mail, real mail, helps:
|We talk to each other, and ourselves, in our letters|
|sometimes we don't have to say much|
| and other times we make tiny books with doodles and after thoughts |
because we're paper people, which means piles of paper scraps
|always, we write like we talk... for better or worse.|
|and we always end on a high note|
And, finally, this is pretty fantastic: