I hear Bonnie Raitt singing . . . "Let's give 'em something to talk about. A little mystery to figure out. . ." I cannot sing well, it's true, but I sincerely say to you, Life always gives us something to write about. How about this?
A little wooly mammoth from a box of something chocolatey. How do I know? 'Cause it still smells of chocolate. I've had it for I-don't-know-how-long now--still in the little clear wrap. Smears and daubs still cling to the cast off cover.
A little plastic toy? Who have I been saving it for? Why me, of course. This is the day it was meant to be opened. And played with.
This is the calendar I see from bed when I need to know the date. I'm three twenty-four hour spans late with the page-turning onto July. This is the day I remembered. I needed this page on this night. I needed the glow of the light that shines from a "Shabbat Window" so bright.
Today is the day I remembered to write . . . A note to go with the gift I'll soon post with delight . . .
These three things share one thing in common: This day, that has turned to night. Still, and all, I have miles of words to pen, before my day will end.
Goodnight dear friends.
It's time to pick up my pen
again . . .
P.S. If I owe you a letter, hang on. Mail is on the way.