Ten.Two Thousand, Six Hundred & Six
Another wet morning and cold, cold fingers.
Best laid plans.
Less worried about the process and more worried about the outcome. Or, maybe the reverse.
I really will get to the mailbox this week.
Detached yet invested.
He says I sound sick. I tell him it’s my “in-season voice.”
She says something about the smell of grilled meat.
Three in a row.
I should probably model the behavior a little better.
Sometimes there are no words.