Sunday And It's Lis's Birthday

I actually went upstairs to take that picture from a window. It's a rainy day and I was trying to get that perspective of how it looks here when the streets are wet and the trees are dripping and the sky is gray.
Well, whatever. If you look carefully in the lower right part you can see one of my Canary Island Date palms, all cut back to nothing because of this last winter's freeze. It will come back. There's green in the middle, new fronds coming out. No metaphors here today, folks. Just a botanical truth.

Not much of anything here today. I've got a case of the Sunday blues so thick you could cut 'em with a knife. I wish someone would cut 'em with a knife. I wish a lot of things today, most of them ending with "and then I got in the bed and pulled the covers over my head and everyone left me alone."

Yeah. Well.

I've already raised my voice to Mr. Moon several times. For no good reason. He talked to me. He asked me some questions. Questions having to do with things like, "Aren't we almost out of milk?" Yeah. Mean, mean man. What is he thinking, asking me questions on a day like today?
I've also kicked Elvis. Not very hard. But hard enough to get him off of Mable. Yes. That's right. I kicked the rooster off a hen.
And I am not ashamed at all.

What am I so mad about today? Because obviously, I am. Mad at something. Some one. Whatever.

Mostly me, I think. It's Lis's birthday and I could be over at Gatorbone, helping her with her house concert and helping celebrate her birthday. But am I? No. I am not. I am right here being crazy. I was there last year, and we had such a grand time.
Read about it here, if you want. I made her a sweet potato cake with caramel frosting. Is anyone going to make her a cake this year? Not me, it would appear.

So what's stopping me from getting in the car and going? God knows I could use a three-hour drive by myself.
Well. Nothing. Nothing is stopping me but the crazies. And I have a rehearsal today. And, and, and....

Forgive me, Lizzie. I love you so. I am more glad you were born than you can imagine. I called but no one answered the phone. I imagine you are so busy, trying to get things ready for the concert. Cleaning and cooking and making everything beautiful, the way you always do. Do you know how fully you walk in beauty, dear woman, dear friend? Well. You do. You walk in beauty and you sing in beauty and you live in beauty and you make beautiful things with your strong, beautiful hands. You write beautiful songs. You have a beautiful love with your beautiful husband. You are, to put it bluntly, beautiful in all ways.

I wish I was there to tell you this in person but really, you wouldn't want me there today. You know me well enough to just look at me and know that. I'd be the one hiding in the guest room. I'd be the one you'd have to worry about, and you have too much to take care of as it is. And I'll see you next weekend when we celebrate Jessie's birthday. I bet I'll be feeling better by then. I'll not be kicking roosters or raising my voice. I'll put a rose in my hair and bring one for you and for Jessie too. I'll be celebrating the birthdays of two of the women I love most on this earth. One I gave birth to, one I have had the honor and joy of loving as a friend.

Call me, honey, if you get the time. If you get the chance. I'll tell you how much I love you. I'll cry. You know I will. But that's okay. You've heard me cry before. I've heard you cry, too. We should carry hankies, you and me. You in the sleeve of your pretty crocheted sweater. Me in the pocket of my cargo pants.

I'm thinking of you. I'm remembering this:

Okay. I'm crying. And that's all right. The sun is coming out. I'm wishing you a beautiful day.

I love you....Mary