Letters to Holly

Tuesday, August 11


It was a tough day for Mom. It's Dad's birthday, and it hit her hard throughout the day. We tried to help. Nothing seemed as effective as letting her talk it out, and we would interject with a vague affirmation every five minutes or so.

The kayak trip was postponed at the last second by a whopper of a storm. Tomorrow looks the same, and the surf class will probably be a washout. I hope the rescheduled class and kayak tour aren't on the same day; I'd fall apart before collapsing into bed that night.

I'm reading a lot; the new Rolling stone, the latest Esquire (the best monthly magazine in North America), a West Wing script book. I'm not tanning much. I blame Your Sister's SPF Cardigan lotion.

Mom wanted spaghetti, and an Italian restaurant was unearthed, and we ate our weight in various dishes. I type to you as a beached sea creature, painfully drawing breath over my distended belly regions.

Sorry you can't rendezvous with us, but Allah knows you've done your share of traveling lately.
We caught about ten minutes of Star Wars last night before calling it a night. It was the Mos Eisley scene. Wretched hives and jedi mind tricks and Greedo shooting. So you're with us in shiny blue spirit, if nothing else.

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