this morning...
...the 10 of us all sat crowded around that old kitchen table, multiple conversations going, each voice trying to out-do another, laughter everywhere, a momentary catharsis.
I don't often drink coffee, but I had some, along with the cranberry juice filled paper cup, and a cinnamon muffin, and a bit of those pretend make-shift crepes she makes from time to time. (She hates to cook, which is partly why I never really learned. Still, these interesting combinations of hers sometimes win us over: the crepes. the "taco casserole." the rice and meat pie --yes, even that.)
Everyone shared stories -- old stories, new stories, well-trodden stories and stories yet to be realized. I always find comfort in stories, especially these ones. They form the familiar. The world would make even less sense without them.
Later we all took one helium-filled balloon to release outside. I chose teal. (if you should look up and see it floating, please let me know -- one determined, if not misguided, teal-colored balloon.) I watched them all, a dozen or so, until they became little black specks against the clouds.
I then quietly hoped Al Gore wouldn't come and hurt us.
I don't often drink coffee, but I had some, along with the cranberry juice filled paper cup, and a cinnamon muffin, and a bit of those pretend make-shift crepes she makes from time to time. (She hates to cook, which is partly why I never really learned. Still, these interesting combinations of hers sometimes win us over: the crepes. the "taco casserole." the rice and meat pie --yes, even that.)
Everyone shared stories -- old stories, new stories, well-trodden stories and stories yet to be realized. I always find comfort in stories, especially these ones. They form the familiar. The world would make even less sense without them.
Later we all took one helium-filled balloon to release outside. I chose teal. (if you should look up and see it floating, please let me know -- one determined, if not misguided, teal-colored balloon.) I watched them all, a dozen or so, until they became little black specks against the clouds.
I then quietly hoped Al Gore wouldn't come and hurt us.