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I meant to write this morning.

I had a whole list of things to tackle: fiction, non-fiction, a birthday card, this blog.

I wanted to write about change, and my aunt, and a trip to Galveston I recently took.

I thought about all of the things I have yet to write here. I thought about a Jewish prayer that caught my heart back in October; how I have much to still say about the joy I felt while dancing at Paul Simon’s final big concert – so much better than I anticipated it would be – back in September. I thought about describing my upcoming trip to France, or how much I’ve been thinking about the length of our days right now, as they reach reach reach towards the spring.

But then I noticed that I wasn’t writing at all. I had both my hands wrapped around my mug, and I was staring not at my computer but instead towards the corkboard to my left, onto which I’ve tacked pictures and mementos of my life. There, I find my mother and her sister on either side of me, smiling in a cap and gown; my friend Erin and I in a church in Italy; a baby – who is now 15 – sucking on his thumb as I hold him; some of my best friends flopped on a couch together after the first of us got married. There are tickets from the Harry Potter play, in London; a wooden lobster ornament from Maine; a Charley Harper calendar, birds aflight; a greeting card illustrated with mountains and a John Muir quote.

I’ll write about change. I’ll tell you about Paul Simon and France and Galveston. But not today, apparently. Today, I’ll just give myself a few minutes, staring into my past, a warm mug in my hands, my mind everywhere at once.


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