I have stubbornly failed to bring my larger bag into the coffee shop, yet yearn to write. Thus, I peck this passage with one finger flying nimbly across a virtual keyboard on my 7-inch tablet. This should be good. Short and simple, precision born of desperation.
We have had two days in Saint Charles, another city by the river. We heralded my sister’s 68th birthday. We partook of the obligatory shared dessert. I forced my son and niece to sing in the restaurant. They tolerated the event with passable good humor. A fuzzy photo recorded the event. We all seem to be smiling.
Now my son has started his northeastern journey home. I burdened him with several more items than he anticipated, but there, too, he barely griped. We have so few remaining points of intersection that we do not flinch at the ones which remain. But this trip underscores his greater virtue. Where I tolerate the world’s weakness, he still rebels against it. I hope he mends some ripple in the fabric of justice.
In a few hours, I board a plane for Oakland. My sense of rightness rises with the spring sun, stronger in the sky with each passing hour. The glimmer of the day outside these windows reminds me of the California air.
It’s the seventeenth day of the fifty-second month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.