This is 33


A gray and rainy August day. A lazy morning. A late breakfast.

Four children. An eight year old reminding his younger siblings to let Mom rest. A four year old telling his mom Happy Mother’s Day. A two year old forgetting her older brother’s encouragement and waking mama first. An eleven year old buying handmade lavender soap from the Pueblos in Taos and drawing pictures of Montana mountains. Four homemade cards, chocolate and soap and a penny from the four year old’s penny bank.

A grieving husband, home from work and insisting this day be for his wife, insisting she choose how to spend it. Holding it together, bringing joy to her birthday, even as he grieves.

A trip to the library.

Let her live out her days on the trail and in her books. If you need her you can find her there, she would gladly walk beside you.

Her Again by Michael Schulman. The Stand by Stephen King. Walden by Thoreau.

Coffee and a cake-pop with her Mom and Grandma and sister and nephew. Thoughtful cards, beautiful flowers, wine and more chocolate. Her family knows her well.

News of a car wreck. An evening at the hospital. A loved one with two broken wrists. Dinner at eight.

Grown-ups by circumstance. The years have brought them here.

Three days home. Home. What is home? Family? Familiarity? The place you spend the most time? The place your heart escapes to when the world becomes too much?

The south is so green. And so humid. The sky much smaller. The air much heavier. The bugs in greater number. Family is here. And the oldest friends. Most of the memories. And connections. A large network. Old religion. A past. The present. Their future?

Heavy, waist length curls. Smile lines. Wide eyes. A body in recovery. Hope. Determination. Possibility.

Once you have digested true nourishment, the junk just won’t cut it anymore.

Changing tides.

Changing seasons.

Dreamer. Writer. Wanderer. Wonderer.

This is 33.

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