10.17.99

I think you've got a lovely day by which to celebrate a 52nd year of both corporeal and ethereal existences. Can you see all the colors? So many colors. Reds and oranges clashing with a sky still pretending summer. (I've recently decided that fall is my favorite season. It's not only the vividness of it, but something in my mood...something that accumulates as motivation and hope. I think it is best explained by all that conditioning to school schedules. Fall is always a time to begin fresh and when the challenges are not yet burdensome.) Ah, a lovely day it is and the chilly tips of breeze impart this energy of beginnings. I've already said all I came prepared to say today. I didn't want to type while talking those things. Now I find that I'm short for words. Unreciprocated conversation is difficult to uphold for very long. Well, not really - I could talk on to myself for hours if it were the right topic, but I am talking to you. It feels good sitting here on the grass. I brought all of these comfort things to lend good feelings - this is a day for comfort and celebration after all. And I am comfortable. The grass is soft, the light too. The breeze is gentle. My hot chocolate has stayed warm all this time and tastes more sweet than bitter. Billy is doing a good job holding it for me. The colors intrude again. Green with that golden of fall everywhere in it, and here you are blue and white amidst it. You are the sky. You are. Only you of this group reflect it and now it corrals those little plastic horses I set upon your brass plate. Between my last visit and this one you have decided to grow a goatee of moss. I can't keep from rubbing my forefinger into the velour; it changes color as it bends, then slowly eases back into place. My pinkys are small and crooked like yours and they do not fare well typing for very long. Seems the angular joints compromise some of the integrity of the skeleton. (It always hurt in typing class, which was back in those days when we did not know what computers were and the institution thought we would become weak typists even if we used touch typewriters. I think we typed on the same steel boxes you did.) Anyway, now the pinkys are chilly because they are small and peninsular in the fall air. I wonder if the gene that gave you cancer is associated with the one that gave us both crooked pinkys? This is a peaceful place. I notice I have no desire to leave but now I am only staying for staying's sake and it's starting to feel a little forced. I think it is time to leave you again. I know I'll be back but I can't say when. Maybe when I have something I can't bear not to tell or maybe just the next time I drive through town. Now I'm going to gmas and I will ask her more about our history.

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