The Postscript

Usually, I am just finding my way to the coffeepot around 8:30. But now there are men standing on scaffolds, jackhammering bricks at 8:00 right outside my window. If I open the drapes, I can see their boots.

An hour passed, and Katie had almost convinced herself that Felix was gone for good. That’s when he popped up from the basement, his face festooned with cobwebs.

There was a third bloodcurdling scream.

I’m not sure what I expected. But if you ever want to have a renewed appreciation for the U.S., I recommend you go to watch 136 immigrants getting their citizenship.

I thought about what a great idea it was to write a play about a town that was helpful. It was such a simple idea, yet so absolutely right.

We take stories from our youth and struggles we’ve had as adults and heartache and disappointments and moments of indescribable joy, and we make sense of them in a way that defines us—to ourselves.

It is hard to ask for help, but it shows wisdom to ask when you need it. Asking in the way my father does makes it feel like a privilege to be helpful. I hope I can be as gracious when I need help—tomorrow, and for the rest of my life.

I honestly don’t mind not having a tattoo. I figure they are like every other kind of fashion and will come and go. If I manage to live long enough, not having tattoos will probably be cool, allowing me to be a very cool nonagenarian. I have that to look forward to.

Peter and our cat, Felix, have been playing their nightly game of chase and tag. Peter always loses. This might be because Felix makes the rules—and is the referee.

I remember that feeling of being convinced there was this world of secrets I did not know, and I’ve been reminding myself there is a very good chance that there is no secret. And then reminding myself, if I don't know something, I can always just ask.

I saw Ruthie, and she had not made pickles. Maybe the cucumbers had not cooperated. Maybe she was working on other things. Maybe she just lost interest in supplying every relative in her large family with pickles. A person does not need a reason not to make pickles, and yet I felt Aunt Ruthie owed me an explanation.