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book notes by siri
September 2018
2talk before sleep
4book 18, talk before sleep by elizabeth berg
6book 19, vinegar girl by anne tyler
8Vinegar Girl by Anne tyler
9book 20, i am not your perfect mexican daughter by erika l. sanchez
18Book 20, I am not your perfect Mexican daughter by erika sanchez

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September 3, 2018

ruth is growing on me. her sweet last conversation with meggie (ann's daughter) had me in tears. "You," ruth says, pulling meggie to her, "are a very clever girl. are you in college yet?" "no. only fourth grade." "unbelievable."

and how, even tho she was too weak and had to let LD carry her down the stairs, she dressed and rode to the airport anyway. then looking at the names of destinations around the world, finally settled on phoenix and even allowed LD to purchase round trip tickets, first class, for a trip she knew she'd never make.

i think we know. we know.

once, in a crowded, busy, saturday summer morning in a coffee shop in Richmond VA we met 2 of ch's friends. ch always chose genius level friends, sharp, witty, "with it" intellectuals. one of them pounced on me, so what's on your bucket list? she asked. i was only barely familiar with the term. i can't think of a single thing, i replied. really? she asked, surprised. nothing? instantly i felt dumb. how could i not have considered this? i wondered. how could i not have a list as long as my arm? finally i think i may have mumbled something like, well, i guess, i'd like to go to alaska some day. mostly just to satisfy HER.

now, i think, they were just young. their whole lives before them still, all the possibilities.

and maybe they were just so much brighter than i have ever been at any age.

i think ch gets it now tho. the way i see things. how could you possibly make a bucket list of all the things? fresh popped popcorn, the fall's first college football game, standing this close to a tiny hummingbird, eye to eye, laughing with e, dancing with em, every morning's sunrise, every evening's moon and first star, the feel of c's hand in mine, his face beneath my palm, heart line scratched by his rough, not yet shaved off whiskers, later the cool smoothness after the razor, scones on sundays, hot coffee every morning, papaya with a little lime to wake it up, daisies, watching the mountains change colors every hour every day, laughing in the sunshine with a friend, the miracle of sweat on our skin. it's just a million simple little everyday things. it couldn't possibly fit in a bucket. i don't have to travel to phoenix or paris or alaska to find it. it's right here, right now, which is what i was feeling in that coffee shop with ch and her friends, the hot coffee, their voices, their laughter, the warmth of all that pierced by the pointed question. this, you see? a gazillion this-es, that's what i want.
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