Well, dear, the coffee is made, sausage and eggs, too.  I’ve settled into my Sunday chair by the window in my room.  It’s March 1, a good day to be a Sunday – and a fine way to begin the countdown of our last few Sundays together.  Nothing too fancy, but all the light the day can promise is waiting for our ordinary pleasures to be remembered and enjoyed.  Our first decade apart is almost over.

This is the Sunday of a very good week, honey.  You don’t have to worry about me.  Whatever hurts, I seem to be able to hold on until one of the smarter people calls me back.  And they always do.  Wendy laughed me out of several imagined catastrophes, and back to my ridiculous self.  I was just scared – but the unknown turned out to be beautiful.

The most important thing about Sunday is I have a chair that rocks and swivels – covered with cream cotton and humble little posies twining over the arms and back.  And it has – a matching foot stool!  If you were here, you could sit in the chair, and I could pull the footstool up to the side of the bed for my backrest.  Then we could both stretch out our legs and think things through.

Jen’s beautiful painting is here, shining yellow love over everything.  Otherwise, it’s books everywhere – and perched among the stacks, all the familiars I seem to need to make any magic at all.  Blooming glass trees, teapots, figurines of courtly dancers – and a recently added clown who is my very favorite.

I did not have to choose between whiskey or wine today, as things turned out.  I had both.  At lunch, I walked the antique mall with our Chicago girl, and at dinner, a beach dog from Puerto Rico licked my toes – to my squeamish delight.  If I told you how good the pot roast was, you wouldn’t believe me.  Later we watched sciencey fiction, and the dog fell asleep next to me on the couch, belly up just in case I might pet her.  It did make me feel special, but the truth is, she’ll do this for anyone.  It’s a solid life-strategy.  Why not be ready in case there’s a soft heart and a tender touch just waiting for a chance to tickle your tummy?

I’ll try to write you everyday, dear –  just the somethings we would always talk about.  And I think I can scramble together enough pictures to keep up with your butterflies.

I love you, dear.  Write soon.