On a Thursday

I slow-roast grape tomatoes and try not to eat them all before storing them in the mason jar.  It’s hard to restrain myself.

While cleaning, I find the note my daughter wrote to me when she was very little:  I love you.  I hope your nose fells [sic] better.  I find this note each time I clean, each time I come to the shelf on which it rests.  Each time it is a gift.  I think, Yes, sweetpea, my nose is so much better and I love you too.  Every single time.

The cool air floats through the open windows, relief from summer’s heat and humidity.  I am not even a little sad to wave goodbye to summer.

The birds at the new feeder are hungry and they eat so much.  I fill the feeder every other day.  I wonder why it took me so long to replace the old feeder because look how happy they seem.  I notice how happy I am when I watch them seeming happy.

I try to write a poem loosely inspired by André Breton.  I mistakenly think it will be easy.  I should know better.  It is not easy.

My daughter and I take a walk with the pup.  We talk about writing and inner critics.  She shares an idea with me and I tell her it’s brilliant.  I think I catch her smile.  Later we take a bike ride with her brother.  There is no talk of writing but there are smiles.



10 thoughts on “On a Thursday

  1. I have saved most of the notes my daughters and husband have given me, as well as letters from my mother-in-law. Re-reading them always warms my heart. xo


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