and if the flowers, the little ones, knew

IN the meantime there has been a whole week of March and absolutely no time to write about it. Sometimes you just have to work for your living and luxury and spend the rest of the time playing your piano and reading JM Barrie and baking cake and listening to classical radio and berating your dog and warding off librarians and being happy and being confused and being sad. I will tell you all about it if you want, later. I promise also I will read your posts and reply to your emails and all that. Right now I am a little sad. Earlier I was a lot sad. But not now, now is an almost calm like I am a separate person in a mirror seeing my face and curious at the red traces in my eyes, the silver taste in my mouth. There are no long words or deep heart gushing. I think about simple things now. I think the most often that I would have loved to hang on my dad. That there was a time I would have done anything to be held. That now we are so far away living in this same house, a mystery that would take more than I am to explain. It is our faults both. Every daughter should tell her father she loves him every time she thinks of it and trust him enough to do what he asks. Every father should know his children wish more than anything to make him proud, and when they are always and only told they did wrong they will eventually truly believe they can do nothing right.