Its a long time since I satdown,waitingforthe creative muse tovisit. Perhaps the invitation was not sincere enough. The underlying wantwas there but the offer was weak perhaps.Like weak cold tea, itjust doesn'thit the spot. Writing is a bitl ike lying.you make up stories, fabricate the truth, embellish the actions, season the language, change the tempo, and voila a new story outs itself.

Here goes,

New friends, new life. Itsfouryears since Seymour died, four years since I heard your voice . to night the phone rang and only myvoiuce was thebounce back. I believe that it was you trying to say hello. Ido believe it, even if Iheard it from a novel about a murdered young girl. The wind is howling tonight, north wind cold, and frigid, much like thedayI buried you. It was so cold, I was worried about Judah. He had just come home from the hospital. Now he is gone and I worry about Benjamin. He is38 and no prospects in sight, much promise but alas no delivery. Ihope this changes soon.

Judah dieda month after turning 39. You died a monthbefore our 39th anniversary, do Idare saywhat I fear now, Do Ihave thecourage to write thewords that scare me. Writing needs honesty, but it alsow isthe art ful dodger, onecan write aboutand around the issue. The sword of fear keeps mefrom spitting out that 39 seems horrid,and I am praying thru alissa's 39th and Benji's turning 39. There Isaid it,does ithave the dramitic impactI was hopingfor? no, it soundssilly, sowritingcanalso diminish the impact ofthefear.


Diminish lesson, that isreallywhat has happened tous, we are diminished by ourlosses, "wehave"lessoned" learned a few olouslylessons here alongtheway.No sense is made apparent tome. No great epipahny, just continued unraveling ofthe sweater that held usall together huddled in warmth. Theyearn is being respooled, andnonew sweater isbeingmade yet.


Ihear knockingat onthedoors, the orange tree isloosing itsorgances totheblowing ofthewind, the pool has waves in it,Monty , the dog,mynew best friend, has curled up on thecouch hisnose tucked into his tail.Hedoesn'tjumpat thesoundsthat make me wantto check tomake sureall thewindows areshut tight. I keepaflashlighthandyas I thinkwemighthavea powerfailure
Alissa is with Marc tonight. Ihear the sirens, must they scooted down motor ave. giving me a snese of relief that the emergency is not in my back yard.

Oh how Iwish youcould see the yard,thehouse painted, thenew furniture, Ithink youwould like it.

I am scaring myself, my attemptsat honestyaretoo painful. Iwillendnow withall mylove.