And so, I was quiet the last few weeks because I had no words. My Aunt Lucy died, and then it was her funeral. And I really wish teleporters were already a thing. I received word of her death on the way back from dropping Neil off at the ferry for his two weeks in the office. My Isla asked me, I swear, if I was crying ‘because Aunt Lucy’s in heaven. Can we call her up?’ Kinda sorta. And…
Dear Isla, You are six months and a bit. You are my Monkey, my Strumpet, My Favourite Baby. The first time I held you, I told you you’d been here before. And there’s an old soul shining out of your bright blue-grey-silver eyes. On a somewhat related note, I’m sorry for thinking that milk-blister made you look like a tiny version of Nanny McPhee for your first few days. I take it back. And I promise that wasn’t the reason…
I spent all day Saturday looking for a particular piece I wrote on September 11th, 2001. I couldn’t find it, but in the search I found all my old journals and other writing that goes back pretty far. Some things are the same. A lot is different. I want to give that kid/younger twenty-something a hug, and tell her to stop worrying. We’re not in Back to the Future, so I can’t. But I can do this: Dear you, Relax. …
