Posted on 28 November 2003

Thank goodness it’s Friday. I’m weary. I drove Gill to her 7 a.m. class (inhuman), went out to breakfast with my friend, the outdoors woman, Suzanne, and then went to work. So here I am, late in the day, in my little house preparing my cover letter for Elm Street and Playboy (Kate’s suggestion. If the mainstream mags won’t buy, try one that’s interested in female sexuality. I once had a therapist who had a story published in this magazine. I liked him best of all the counselors I’ve ever seen so I decided if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. Besides Kate says that Playboy pay well. Now that would be a novel thing – to actually get paid for my writing. I am usually paying to enter some literary contest.)

This morning I found a package of black licorice, tied with a ribbon, and a note from Gill in my bathroom drawer. What a wonderful awakening. She thanked me for rescuing her the other day when her spirits were down and included part of a poem she wrote in Northern Ireland. (She has given me permission to include it.)

“I return home to my mother
who still hasn’t eaten her scone
from the bakery that’s shut down.
She’s praising a poet
reminding me to dream big,
to earn my own living,
not to underestimate myself.
She sees some power in me
that I don’t acknowledge
no matter how hard I squint to see.”

Tonight Gill and Mike are going out and Rob is working. I’ll have the whole house to myself. I just might have my own private dance. Tomorrow I will reunite with my plums for a writing feast so I want to go to bed early and sleep well. A comforting dream is on order too.

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