"Miss Martha, you are so weird!" "I know . . . isn't it wonderful!?"

When I grow up

I want to be witty and verbose and skilled with words like my sister.  Like my mother.  Published, like my father.  I want people to read my words, then read them out loud, to share them with someone next to them.  Someone who matters.  Someone who would appreciate what I’ve had to say.


That being typed . . . to the Man on the Phone:  Yes, you do have to talk quietly because you’re in the library.  Hang up your cell phone.  Select your book.   Move along.


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