So we've had the scans and the pokings and the proddings and the Man With The Plan has us going to the hospital tomorrow afternoon to be induced over the course of the weekend. He said it's like "turning over a cold engine", and that it might take a couple of days. So we have the end in sight now, and everything looks good, and all we need is for Peanut to stay on course, and maybe fire some last boosters, before floating down to that ocean called Home.
People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m
Oh man, let's sculpt peanut butter rockets and coat them in chocolate.
ReplyDeletewhat a beautiful writing. best of luck to you three. :) maybe peanut will surprise you and come before then!
ReplyDeletewishing all of you all the best!
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