Yesterday I sat under the hickory tree in the front yard. It is the only place where I find rest and just feel fine. I know fine isn’t a lot, but it’s rare for me these days. Even when I’m happy, it’s like there’s something between me and whatever good news comes along. It’s like eating butterscotch still in the wrapping. The tree is untouched by whatever we humans fret over. I think about how it was here before we were born and how it will be here after we’re gone. Maybe this should make me sad but it doesn’t.

Georgia, this is a love letter. Everything I do is a love letter addressed to you.

Sometimes I envy the children today with their tae kwon do, psychotherapy, and language immersion, but at the same time, I appreciate that back then being little meant you really didn’t had to do anything but stay alive and have fun.

I’m amenable to the proposition.

You can’t tell me to live in the present when the past was so much better.