Here is a holiday that reeks of commercialism. Buy a card, buy flowers, take mom to a restaurant for a day, Honor Mothers. My feelings are mixed. My children are grown and have other things that they are occupied doing as do I.
My own Mom decided that my staying safe was more important than my attending the brunch at Camp Stuffy, and since it is slushing slop I am best pleased to be here rather than on the roads. I miss my kids, I miss my mom. I miss the ones that are elsewhere and the ones that are in the midst of being singularly displeased with me as they heal from growing up.
So during the day while I do the laundry, cook a bit ahead, sew on a project and get ready for the next week,
To the Erstwhile Child, to the swordsman, to my Stepdaughter who will be the death of me someday, to the daughter in law soon to be, to my own Mom. thank you for being mine, I love you.
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Edward Gorey and some additions
This is my place to practice writing, let off steam and let people I know into what is going on.
No one walked down Bleak Street at night—not where hobgoblins hobnobbed, skeletons skulked, vampires vamped, and the dumpster behind the Chinese buffet smelled like zombies.
dances with needles
Edward Gorey and some additions
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