I DECIDED TO COME BACK . . .
I looked out the window to see a lemon drop to the patio. I could almost hear the dull thud and surely would have if the helicopter hadn't passed so low on it's way to Stanford hospital.
One down, one on it's way.
I look up and ask for forgiveness, once again a victim of my sick and callous brain.
"You'd tell jokes at a funeral," my father's voice chastises me from the grave.
"Is it the guy in the chopper, strapped to the gurney, or the lemon on the patio that's bothering you?" I reply, looking up when I surely should be looking down. I decide it's the lemon.
Let's just call it a bad mood.
Not very spiritual.
Typing like the words come from my fingers.
I'm feeling peckish. I don't even know what that means. Peckish.
I get up and slide the patio door open.
When life gives you lemons. . .