“Daddy, why are colors so wonderful?” Emma asks me.  I tell her I don’t know, but I think the same.

Busy day, games and then home, lunch, got sandwiches for Dad and Sue and me.  Now on couch with Henry and Emma, thinking of what to get for dinner, already.  Clouds annex the sky, promise rain and weather change.  No wine tonight but a red blend, one of the Orin Swift characters would be perfect for a night like this.  Tomorrow it’s supposed to drop an inch my sister told me last night.  Didn’t know it’d be that much.

Single dad stall I feel like I’m in.  Number of reasons I could list, examples, but working past it.  I ask Henry if he’s feeling better he says “Yeh…” His new word.  And he uses it often, trying to sound like a big kids, like his brother and sister.

Wish I could cook. Maybe that should be some immersion project I should adopt.  Just throw myself into it… print recipes like my mom does and put them in a binder.  Cook for my kids … Kerri getting me that spice rack and I told her before bed the other night that I have to learn to cook now.  She of course urged I not be so hard on myself, but it’s my reaction.  What I’m doing.  Very little interests me lately other than my kids, and providing for them.  Whatever the want.

Start with quesadillas, melts, scrambled eggs, whatever I already know which is very little.—  Henry closes the laptop on my hands and I see it as a symbol, a metaphor propulsion and insistence to stop writing about shit and just DO.  Move, actuate, materialize, manifest as Ms. Kerri voices.

Kids tell me they’re hungry.  Obviously don’t have time or materials for an impromptu menu.  Henry closing laptop again.  Okay, I get it.  Get what, create then narrate.  No more to-do imbued.  Silent is the pursuit.  Sole vocal is the result focal.