The Postscript

My heart hurt, reading this forty-year-old letter. I wondered if I wrote back. I hoped he was doing well.

My grandma’s wedding dress was more than a little worse for wear. It had been folded up in a small box and kept safe by my cousin, Jill. (How Jill ended up with it, I do not know.)

“Jonie, come downstairs!” Dad hollered. “I think there are bats in the birdhouse!” Mom came running and they carefully lifted the back off the birdhouse.

My parents are great planners so there was no chance they were out of coffee, but where they might be keeping it—that was another issue.

My first thought was, “I’ve never had my head vacuumed before.”

My teacher says I have a perfectly serviceable voice—and I am 100% sure she says this to all her students—but I still find it reassuring.

Ayo said, “Don’t burn yourself out. Give yourself permission to stop. Don’t use your head to break a coconut.”

The whole refrigerator had begun to resemble some archeological site with mysterious remnants of a past life that we could now only guess at.

Traveling in Norway with close relations -- sometimes a little too close.

On the joys of discovering unplanned personal growth.