I am fifteen this week. I’m over six foot one. My first completed varsity touchdown pass is in the books. I am kind. So very kind, and respectful, and deliberate about everything I am. I am thirteen. I love football and choir equally. I’m sensitive but so crazy-confident about my own place in the world that really not much can shake me. I am eight. I’m beautiful and creative and funny.
We’ve been enjoying very fine weather, as Margaret says at the beginning of the most dramatic final scene in any Jane Austen story ever. (Shortly after that, Elinor finds out that Edward is not married and that his heart is, and always will be, hers, and then she sobs.) Margaret knows the scene is thick with tension, but she has recently been told to keep her remarks on the weather
You guys. I did it. I’m not even going to tell you. It was awful. It was fine sometimes. But mostly awful. Here are some of the high points – or just points of some sort – over the last month. I still have a whole lot of lung. Dr. V didn’t take as much as he thought he needed to. The trouble was removed but not the entire upper