Jack asks for V-bucks, however spelled and written, I buy. Why not. Want him to enjoy his time here, and his life. Seeing him smile is the ALL… my little poet, my Kerouac. My little mad one…
Friend telling me about finding a receipt book from her grandmother. Then me remembering mine and Mom and Dad mentioning her tonight in a discussion touching on theology with Jack, little Kerouac asking about religious and if one has to go to church and why people have religion and why others don’t. Wasn’t expecting that.
Credit to my parents— well, more than just plain bland expected expression of “credit”, it’s more Ethan credit, just how they addressed it and looked to me with only eyes to see if I was okay with their input. Humbled, really, and grateful.
This gratitude truth, not just a motion that’s fashionable or some tag or category, something people say and then say too much. It’s teaching me and instructing me, thank me but for what I don’t know.
Coffee cup empty. Of course too late to fill. Check I haven’t cashed on desk, little leather journal… miss SF. This new story has already changed me.