not the same lighting [sad face]Remember, Mother, when I spent many evenings with you at the kitchen table browsing over newspapers (or maybe silly romance novels?) as we both sipped our warm milk with creamer (because I was so sick of chamomile tea) and had a melatonin. Alack, the lack of sleepfulness.
I'm feeling giddy ce soir*, so I've repeated those motions. But with Charles Dickens' characters and not newspaper typings. However, the lighting isn't as good as the orangey glow from that odd chandalier in our kitchen, and there's no hum from the space heater stoically combatting the leaky back door, and there are no curtains made out of Grandma's flowered print, and their are no loon figurines and I might miss the company of someone like you.
But, really, I'm a contented fool.
Love,
Marge
*tonight. pronounced: suh swahr, but gently
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