In a moment the dog will awaken and stare me into taking her out and feeding her. I’ll have to darken the rooms with shades because the sun is now behind the clouds but will come out in moments and make our home very hot.
The few remaining dishes from yesterday will have to be cleaned and breakfast will be made by me for my husband and our dog.
Perfection is what my mother wanted. I took violin, ballet and piano lessons for it yet I’ll never be perfect. No-one can be perfect.
We deal with our imperfections. I’ll never be the owner of the top Michelin star restaurant in the world yet I cook for my husband and family.
I’ll never write the JD Salinger novel or figure out the next step to Bucky’s geodesic dome. Yes, Buckminster Fuller, I knew him.
Striving to make the best pizza crust to serve at home I am lucky to find secrets from people who I keep secret.
My mother tried to make me perfect, walking with a dictionary on my head. My father always told me I could be anything I wanted to be. No-one is perfect.
Today I try to get crosswalks painted and have standing pools of mosquito-breeding grounds stopped. They are small steps but stairs lead somewhere and I’m not looking at elective office, just an opportunity to make a difference and to sleep one night without being bitten by these mosquito-like creatures that are flying by my window.
Spring is here. It’s time to contact the right people and have that standing water drained, as it was in the railroad days. Dee