miss my black bear kitty.

it’s good being married to a man who believes in stormdoor poetry. he put up a P.L. Dunbar for fall and pestered me for days on the winter selection.

carrying around my suitcases of pain, packages of failures, boxes of guilt. somewhere in there is also a slim sheaf of accomplishments. my elephantine memory. wish i understood what it means for something to not matter anymore.

saw my first strapped-atop-a-car christmas tree today; my heart grew from a burst of festiveness.