It's been the gloomiest week, save for two-week old daisies, all rainstorms and humidity -- a week when you think about drying your hair before your own practicality steps in -- why bother?
I stopped by the market to buy some tea during my lunch hour and picked up an old favorite -- black tea with a hint of vanilla. It's the sort of thing that's so viscerally tied to memory -- 22, working eleven-hour days with a baby in each arm and another clinging to my legs. How strange it was to feel fulfilled, measuring the day in ounces and changes and steps, to witness the everyday tears and triumphs of little boys.
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