Waning August, Tiny Letters

Dear Me,

I know it’s been a great summer with the Sodalicious cookies and the salt and vinegar chips. But get a grip, missy.

Back away slowly from the super delicious junk food.


Dear Me,

I’m proud of you for staying calm in the grocery store parking lot when Truman lost his marbles over shoes and ice water and wet hands. Good job, you.


Dear Me,

Writing tiny letters to oneself is weird. And yet…


Dear Boys,

I see what they mean about feeding growing people like you. This is a real and very wild phenomenon. That giant cartload of food I bought a week ago has evaporated. I need an intern. Who does the shopping.


Dear Book of Exodus,

You get better with age and a second (or third) reading. I’m flying through you like you’re a novel. Who knew that tales of bondage and plagues and a guy named Moses could be so addictive.


Dear Late August,

You are being so good to me this year (*knocks on wood*). I don’t hate you anymore. I think you are lovely. You are the bridge between the hooligan freedom of summertime and a return to normalcy. You give us just a hint of fall really early in the morning. I like you.


Dear Earth,

Thank you for spinning around the sun and tilting just so to make seasons a thing.


Dear Back to School open houses for Jack and Charlie,

You guys, I wasn’t looking forward to dragging my boys in for the ubiquitous visit to the classroom this week. But you know what? It wasn’t that bad. Reality is sinking in for the guys that summer truly is ending. They are processing it. Meltdowns were minimal, so thanks.


Dear School,

How do I love you? Let me count the ways: life-giving structure, satisfying organization, blessed routines. I can go on.


Dear my front yard,

August is when you are just the loveliest thing. You do so much with so little attention from me. In August, you flourish. The dogwoods are crazy huge. The zinnias and marigolds and that purple flower that isn’t lavender but I can’t remember its name are flush and glorious. Thank you, growing things, for growing even in a laissez-faire garden with a mainly absent gardener.


Dear God,

Thank you for zinnias. And Norwegian spruces. For English laurel and all that’s green. Thank you for light and sleep and writing and little and big boys and new starts and life on earth.





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