This is how it will always be.
I am so, so, sick
Last night, my adopted son who bears my name met his paternal biological grandparents for the first time.
It’s “Boxing Day” which means the season’s o’er? In ‘Murica, again, we have it wrong.
You don’t have to like it; you don’t have to eat it. I will.
Who would do /
This / On purpose?
In general, I find a great deal of peace and predictability in the turning of the liturgical seasons. In other ways, it’s tremendously troublesome.
Always waiting. Always looking for what’s next. “OK, that one’s done, and I guess it didn’t ‘work’ either. What do we wait for next?”
More sleep means haiku
I have to be honest; I’ve never liked this carol much.
The bad’s still there – I’ll let the best abound.
Opposites attract, Except, of course, when they Don’t.
He took the news while looking bold;
He chose to bet instead of fold.
My son is thirteen.
One eschews the Liquid Courage that brought them together.
I swear I’ve been here
I think maybe this is getting closer to the root of my malaise…
I wait for joy. Again, this year, I wait.
They thought / They were / Making / Memories