Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
I really hope you aren’t reading this, but if you are, thanks for teaching me how to read! It stuck. And how to write. And before I could those things, thanks for writing down everything I said, all the stories I told you and insisted were stories or poems, and thanks for saving them, including the first ever, which was about snowmen and pancakes (two of the tropes I return to again and again in my work).
Someday I will write a book you can bring to your book club, I swear.
In other news, I cried in the cab. The driver, stricken, gave me a sizable discount.
The stewardess cried on the intercom when we landed. This is the second stewardess in two weeks that has cried on me. The first was when I was there for the demise of Song.
A stranger e-mailed to say my writing is full of joy.
We are very happy, crying because we are very, very happy.
And the man behind the counter in the airport took my bag and slapped that blasted sticker on it that marked me bound for the west coast, and said: Have a good love!
And then corrected himself, said: I mean, have a good flight, love.
No, mister, you got it right the first time.