Right now, I can’t imagine forgetting one single thing.  How could I?

This sweet little smile, the pinching of skin at the sides of her eyes, the dimples below the corners of her lips.  That smile that is all mischief, the one that is pure joy, the one that is Ican’tcontrolmyselfgigglingbellylaughter.  The feel of her soft, curly, crazy hair.  The sound of her voice, babbling nonsense and forming new words. 

The knuckle bump.

The knuckle bump!

Her boodie-shaking, head-bobbing, arm-flailing, body-leaning, shoulder-bouncing dance style.  Her sweet, sweet singing voice.

I won’t forget any of this, will I?  How soft this forearm?  The exact curve of this cheek?  This precise intonation of the word she uses for “bird?”  Just how soft and snuggly?  I’ll remember every little detail, right?

Oh, please don’t answer that.  I already know.

If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.  (Henry David Thoreau)

I don’t know how I  feel about this quote, which I’ve only just discovered originated from Thoreau.  I’ve always thought it had to do with marching to the beat of your own drum, and I kind of like my version better, though it is less poetic.  I can make peace with it for the sake of Thoreau, however, by considering that “different drummer” to be the Muse, or that Divine Spark of creative inspiration.  I think my friend Henry David would be OK with that.

If… he weren’t dead. And… if he actually gave a sh*t what Terri Fischer had to say about it.

Alakazam.

I feel like the magician standing on stage with the bird still in his hankerchief.

I said…  ABRACADABRA!

Go!  Fly!  Be free!  Disappear!

I’ve done what I thought I was supposed to do, and yet, here it is, my website, still here.  I have reinventing to do!  Go!  Shoo!  And then come right back.  OK?  (I’m talking to the website, here.  Not to you.  And not to myself.)

I think I forgot the pixie dust.