#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

To the world you may be one person but to one person you may be the world.”

― Bill Wilson

Windows open, return of summer-ish weather. Early awakening. Frank is away, but my first thought is; today is his anniversary. Forty years of sobriety. He has turned sixty—and forty—this year. It’s wet, but freshly warm in the yard, and my walk is early and short, to the river, where the mist rises and the trees turn. This morning, errands. The yard must be decorated for a special one’s weekend birthday. Pumpkins, hay bales, cornstalks, mums, all cheerfully harvest colors. Somehow, I manage to cram it all into the car and the sun is beaming on me, I feel the golden pleasure. Frank’s father arrives for a visit tomorrow night. Let’s see if he makes it, as his last two visits have had to be canceled. We will hope for the best. An exciting thing appeared in my e-mail: my anticipated pub date for my poetry collection: October 2022. It’s beginning to feel real and I have work to be done and I’m eager to do it. After I bought the pumpkins my phone rang, and my friend who has moved away was calling and I didn’t unload the car, I sat on the garden bench, and crossed the miles, her cheerful voice in my ear and the sun on my cheeks.