I'm sorry that there is a stack of half-written letters to you sitting under the sewing machine behind the computer on my dining room table. I'm sorry that our tuesday lunch-for-me, morning-for-you phone call was more hit and miss than a habit. I'm sorry that it's been my turn to write here forever and ever. I'll do better next semester.
But I'll see you on Sunday! And we'll have all of the conversations that are on backlog: teaching a college course, your trip to Anc. and reiki training, the million ways to use apples in the fall time, and how fall here refuses to end, in the most sparkly light-frost at night sort of way, how different is is cooking for two. We'll make paper snowflakes and watch the aurora, and talk about ideas, just for the sake of their beauty. We'll trudge down by the Tananananana's twisting lacy shores, and fall back into each other's lives for a moment.
And then I'll come home and go back to this:
 |
| These cranberry lemon rolls wrote a draft for me, I swear |
And you'll inhale. And on the exhale, your spirit will move the air and it will come find me. And next semester? Next semester we'll do better.
I love you forever.
