She leaves notes. Handwritten scrap pieces of paper hidden. "But not really. It's easy to find, Aunt Shea."
Yesterday it was on the pillow of the bed in the room where I never sleep. I went in there to get my pillow and there it was. A torn piece of used copy paper with the words written in a font that is personal and sweet and the time it took from the time I walked to my car, cranked it up and rolled down the windows to the time two huge notebooks and one little book all which looked bigger than she is and I feel bad because I am not being the woman I want to be but I imagined her today
sitting on the floor, looking up and listening.
Just enjoying the moment.
Instead I am some type of drill sergeant, "Are you hungry?"
"Do you have grapes?"
"Yes. But I have to wash them first. Go get your guitar. Get set up."
"Where is it?"
"Thirty minutes. It's now 4:00."
"Forty-five. You owe me from last week."
She smiles and nods.
Afterwards it's straight to homework and I do consider suggesting we do do some type of dinner theater on Thursday night.
But who wants to make dinner? I mean, anything other than an apple and some nuts and water and I'm beginning to sound like him.
We'll have to plan a healthy menu.
Today I am grateful for a pill which obviously tried to kill me but last night was declared the worst 'cause I swear some days you've just got to get up and declare at least a little victory.
Blood pressure within range.
Must get back to walking.
And listening to that kid's music.
I actually say, "I want it perfect," and then kick myself for even muttering that word.
Do better tomorrow, chic.