Thoughts on intangible things.

I had a student but she rarely came for lessons. The excuses I invented for her filled more space in my mind than my actual knowledge of who she was.

And there’s that website that said they were publishing that essay I wrote, months ago. Joy, then nothing. Is it just a story I told myself?

When my son caught the chickenpox, a friend who’d never had them, had to stay away. She sent me texts constantly to give advice, more present in my life than she’d been in years.

Only words were with me those days.

And I went and chatted and flirted a little with a man selling me shoe soles. But inside I was aching and tired, thinking of the bed I’d left unsatisfied.

I write letters for people I’ve never seen in person. I fill in their hopes and dreams. They’ll never know mine.

Or waiting for a check that doesn’t come or can’t come fast enough. Not that it would make a difference. The money is in the bank, you think with relief, and you take away a fourth of it automatically, your dues, you say, for doing what you want.

is a writer & worrier. She lives in Paris with an eccentric Frenchman & a delightfully weird little boy. Besides them, she loves books, history, & cookies.

is a writer & worrier. She lives in Paris with an eccentric Frenchman & a delightfully weird little boy. Besides them, she loves books, history, & cookies.