These are the darkest quietest days I can remember in a long time. The sky has been many shades of gray throughout the hours, with rain, lots of rain.
One to go. It's symbol isn't quite clear yet. It's the only square that I wasn't sure of at the start. Still not. What's left to hold? It's something to do with story, storytelling and truth. It may be too much for five inches of cloth.
It feels like storytelling weather, but there are only broken bits of childhood memories...
. . . my brother and I covering the round dining room table with blankets, and snuggling underneath with more blankets, pillows and books... riding in the backseat of the car, next to my siblings, trying to read by the light of the street lamps, and searching for the big dipper in the night sky... waking up early on Saturday mornings, sneaking downstairs for a big glass of milk and a stack of chocolate chip cookies (made the night before), and back into bed, snacking on them, while reading books about long ago and faraway...
...fragments, nothing whole.
