It was not raining when I woke on Sunday. There was a bit of wind rattling the bare oak branches and the sky was that now familiar, pale pewter color. I noticed the forsythia is in bloom, which I call “golden rod” as my Pop always did. Pop, my maternal grandfather loved the bright yellow blooms of the forsythia, but he always refused to call them by their rightful name. To him they were golden rods, and there was no convincing him otherwise. I never see one, that I do not remember him and today was no different. If sunshine could bloom, it would be called “golden rod”.
Now, today I must focus on tidying up the old farm house. Plenty of things are in the wrong place, which always ends up in a catastrophe. Also, I am getting ready for selling the rabbitpatch. This requires a great deal of preparation. I do not mind looking at houses with flaws, for I can see past them. Some folks can not. Will can not. Once, we were looking at an adorable home. I loved it, but Will said “The walls are purple!” and dismissed it as impossible! My friend Jo Dee and I looked at a dear cottage, but the yard was in need of mowing – and had been. Jo Dee could not imagine the yard tidy nor mowed! I must take that, into account. I remember the first time someone came to look at the rabbitpatch. (Remember that every closet and cabinet is fair game.) When it was over, I prayed they would buy it and that would be the end of the nightmare!
I had hoped to begin again in February, but just now, the landscape is so dull, save the spirea and the “golden rod”. I love the winter landscape, but I can not deny the splendor of spring at the rabbitpatch. I suspect some folks would be persuaded in spring, more so, than the fading days of February. . . and most especially, when the peach trees bloom.
It was a pleasant surprise, when the sun came out, in the mid afternoon. I had put some of the windows up, since there was a mild breeze blowing. I was as convinced as the spirea, that spring was just around the corner and then I chided myself, for falling so easily for “fools’ gold”- if it is the prelude to spring, it will be the earliest one, I have ever known. I do hope no one starts their garden now or anytime soon, for it is mid April, before the danger of frost is truly past.
Meals are served at odd hours under such circumstances, as deep cleaning. We ate a late breakfast, skipped lunch and had an early supper. I finished all of the rooms but three and was satisfied with the progress. The last three rooms will be done, when I can get to them. The yard is in shambles presently, but that will require several days-long days, to complete.
I went out, when night had fallen. The stars shone brightly. I felt like they were long lost friends, come back at last. Orions’ belt was bold and glittered like a strand of rare diamonds. I tarried briefly, in the star shine letting it wash over me like an ancient tonic . . .
Now Monday came along, and that changed everything. The sun came up, heralding the day with a burst of golden glory. It has been a while, since the day dawned in such a way. I had a good day at work and came home to wait for Mama and Daddy and the boys. Mama and Daddy were worried, because my refrigerator wasn’t cooling as it ought to, due to the seal. I had been tolerating it a while , but that wouldn’t do, for Mama and Daddy. I pulled the old refrigerator out, cleaned behind it and unloaded the contents. I even decided to start supper and all was well, when they pulled up. Besides the refrigerator, they had a puppy ! He was a tiny thing and looked like a little boxer. He was found on a road, without a near by house. The boys asked the residents of the few houses down the road, but no one knew anything about the little fellow. I guessed him to be only five to six weeks old. Thankfully, my parents’ neighbor was planning to rescue a dog, and had just been approved, to do so. We agreed to keep him tonight, so she could prepare and make an appointment with a veterinarian. I think sadly, he was abandoned. His little eyes were still tinged with blue. I gave him some warm milk, which he gulped greedily. Daddy held the puppy tenderly while the boys tended to the many details of replacing a refrigerator. Daddy loves dogs and was very worried about him. The puppy was soon fast asleep in Daddys’ arms. In the midst of the new appliance and the puppy and supper, someone called to say they were interested in the rabbitpatch. What a lot of commotion in that hour!
After supper and after a bath for the puppy, I had a pleasant conversation with the woman interested in the house. They currently live in a very old house, not so far away. I told her the awful truths of the place and did not sugar coat a thing. . . though I did also say, that the place had more charm , than any place I have ever lived, for that is also true. We have an appointment, in the near future.
Tuesdays’ sunshine made the ornamental pears bloom . . .and the daffodils,too. The drive to work on Wednesday gave me evidence of that. It is too late to turn back now, for blossoms are everywhere, frost or not, I will enjoy what the current conditions are affording. . . .and it is lovely.
Maybe the seasons have shifted. Scientists even say so. So many people are glad for shorter winters, but has anyone asked the birds,? for this surely affects their migration habits. Well, climate really affects every living thing. It is an amazing but sobering subject. We ought to all practice good stewardship of this planet, we call home. This is one “bandwagon” we all should be on. It is bewildering to me, that this does not dominate headlines, as we will none escape this predicament unscathed. Instead, the networks cover who wore what to some event. . . Dear Rabbitpatch Diary, every day I sound older, I realise.
On a brighter note, the little foundling, went to his new home today. The lady that took him, said she had just been praying for a puppy – the right puppy to adopt, when the boys showed up with him. I take great joy and comfort in that.
It is Friday again and it seems it was just Friday, a few days ago! Here we are in the “short rows” of winter, already. I notice that seasons, now seem but a few weeks, and the years zip pass, too.
As a child the time between Christmases, seemed like an eternity – the same can be said for birthdays. Summers were really endless, in my youth, though they were never long enough to suit me. I remember my elders would talk about something that happened twenty years ago, as if it were just last year. I thought they were “mad” for they always seemed startled, when they realised, it was decades ago, that the barn was that old, or since they had seen a certain cousin. Now, I understand fully well, their predicament. . . and as it turns out, I am every bit as mad now, as they ever dared to be.
It is raining again, as it has most every day, for weeks. The rabbitpatch sits on high ground and rarely a puddle forms here. The yard is a soggy mess now and there are puddles. Some folks can hardly walk in their yards and cars are getting stuck regularly . I have read that we have more rain this year than any other year, recorded – and I believe it. In that case, I am perfectly content sitting under a soft blanket, by the morning table. I still have books to read and I need to write in my journals. I haven’t baked bread as often as I wanted too, nor practiced sketching. . . and here we are in the twilight of winter!
Some people are glad of it. I however, am not prone to “wish time away” . . .well, not entire seasons, at least. I am as guilty as can be, when it comes to “official appointments” of any sort.
It was still raining Saturday morning, when I woke. I had heard it falling throughout the night. At first light, I looked out the window and the scene reminded me of a black and white photograph. Little silver droplets clung to the old oak and with just a bit of imagination, it looked like the old oak was decorated with tiny lights. It was a beautiful picture and I dwelled on it for a while.
I decided to make a pot of soup, as I am apt to on rainy days. By now, it is almost a ritual for me. I hardly ever make soup, unless it is winter. I will make the tomato basil in months like June, but again, only if it rains. I was out of carrots, but I did have a small sweet potato, which is a fine substitute . . and so before ten o’clock, the kitchen smelled like home.
Tonight, Mama and I are teaming up for supper, so I have more cooking to do. I think I will make apple dumplings, for Brant is coming and he especially loves apples. Mama is cooking a pork roast and so I will probably fry cornbread, as it pairs well with pork. Nobody will mind that we had it last weekend, either. I had been thinking to cook a pot of green beans too. They would be a good side with our supper fare, but alas, when I had the pot of seasoning boiling, the greenbeans in the freezer, turned out to be broccoli. It was a shock, as I had planned on the menu, for days. After a bit, the thing became funny-though Daddy won’t think so.
There is always housework, and today I will tackle that. Still, Saturday seems like a soft breeze, compared to days like Tuesday.
As is always the case, the day slipped by til it was time to make the apple dumplings. I wanted them to be warm when we ate them. They cooked all to pieces. Of course we can eat them, for the taste is really almost divine, but they aren’t the usual cute little dumplings. It was just a day of humbling, for me.
As I got ready to walk out the door, the rain picked up and fell with the most force of the day. Evening came early, with the dense clouds blanketing the sky and so it was almost dark as I traveled the back roads. I did see a few deer, but they were in the fields, grazing safely, out of harms’ way.
The supper was enjoyable, even without the string beans – and even though the dumplings weren’t at all attractive. Mamas’ roast was tender and the cornbread was golden and crispy. Of course, every meal is better when shared with loved ones.
It was pitch dark, when I drove back to the rabbitpatch. Thank goodness, the “creeks didn’t rise” while I was out, though they might, shortly. The forecast calls for rain again tomorrow, after all. The countryside was so quiet. Silvery fog hung thick over the fields and covered up the stars, without a bit of mercy. Then there were the stretches of the journey through the woods . I thought of all the beauty this world affords us, as I drove along, for mist over woodlands is a thing of beauty. A lifetime is just not long enough to take it all in.
At last, I reached the friendly lights of the rabbitpatch, and stepped out of that magical, silent world into the presence of a joyful dog, celebrating my return, the way all dogs do. . .then I called Mama to let her know that I was home “safe and sound”. Another thing of beauty . . .is to be loved.
Friday has a different “feel” to it, in months like February, when the school year is in full swing. It does not have the same affect in the summer months. By the time the wild honeysuckle vines are clambering up the woodland trees, I often have lost all track of what day it is. . .but oh, in February, Friday means something. If I stay at the rabbitpatch on the weekend, I do not cook supper and I abandon chores too. . .at least on Friday night.
Today was warm and a slight breeze blew, tenderly. I feel much younger, than I really am, on such days. I have no idea why, but I always do. Sometimes, there is just no “rhyme or reason” for things. The spirea continues to proceed with great haste . It blooms now – because it can, in this “mock spring”, by a little shed, near the edge of the woods. I painted the shed a watery shade of blue, years ago. The shed has never been used much, but the original owner, wrote his name and the year in the cement floor. . .and so I kept the shed, for no other reason. Years later I planted the spirea. There is a grave there of a dog -a collie who was beloved and was a companion to the original family, according to Miss Sylvia, who is now, also passed. The spirea almost shades his resting place now.
On Saturday morning, I woke to the sound of a light rain. If the sun shines and the warm temperatures remain, I suppose that peach tree will bloom, shortly. I did not spring from bed, as only a week day warrants that. I lingered instead, in the good fortune of a soft blanket and a loyal dog sleeping by my feet. The rain fell gently, without a hint of malice. How wonderful to wake without a sense of rush and obligation, I thought.
I eventually had coffee and read a beautiful article on forgiveness, which I took to heart. There were things to do but all were some of my favorites. We gather tomorrow, for Mamas’ birthday celebration and so I had some cooking to do. I also had some housekeeping to do. I believe in equal pay for women and fair treatment, but I would be a poor representative of the current movement, for I am so content cooking and cleaning. I wish I had time to bake on a Tuesday as I used to. I have a domestic old fashioned heart and tending to babies may always be the most satisfying work I have ever done. Above all else, on this earth . . .I love “hearth and home.”
I also plan to practice my calligraphy today. I suppose, this is becoming a lost art and not nearly as useful as it was years ago, but I like it and practicing is as peaceful a project as I know of. I will also study edible flowers. I have used violets and pansies for years on cakes and in salads, but there is a much broader spectrum of choices. . .besides I always devote myself to studying flowers in February-and neither calligraphy nor gardening should yield anything, but plenty of inspiration.
Last weekend, as I have written, was very busy. Jenny was hurrying to get the little girls dressed and I looked at Will and winked, for I knew full well, that Jenny could not be bothered to think about supper. I think about supper the night before, but Jenny is likely to make a decision just an hour before the meal. I knew there were a lot of us and we would all certainly be hungry, by supper, for we always are – so I mustered the courage to ask. Just as I expected, Jenny replied sharply that she couldn’t think about that at the moment. Will and I grinned . Then Will and Jenny mentioned my lack of planning for anything -except meals. I defended myself by saying I do plan. Will laughed aloud as he is always chiding me about my lack of financial planning. He said “What do you plan?” and I answered “gardens”. Will said good naturedly “well, there’s that”. ( I also plan for Christmas and to prove it, my “Christmas closet” is not empty at this moment . . .but I did not mention that.)
Since, I would be busy in the kitchen, I had the notion to clean out the refrigerator. I keep the refrigerator very tidy, for every Thursday, I go through the contents, but how every tray and shelf in the thing, needs to be washed, is beyond my wildest imagination. Next, I inspected the kitchen cabinets and to my dismay, they also needed attention. All the while, the rain fell and the stove top was full of simmering pots. . .and I was “happy as a lark”.
It was well past seven and the world was pitch dark when I finished in the kitchen. I do not know when it got dark, nor when it got cold.
I slept soundly, which is a benefit of work-and then it was morning. Today was Mamas’ birthday party. I knew of several households that, like me, had things to do. I had finished the most of my cooking yesterday, but you can not make cornbread ahead of time -and so there was that to do. I had done laundry yesterday, but had piled everything on the kitchen table, so there was that to do as well. Still, I had ample time to collect my thoughts in the chilly morning moments. A few of the winter birds sang just as light came to the day. The countryside was still and silent, other than that. There is never much traffic and country dogs do not bark like the ones in town do. Well, if a country dog barks, you best go see why. . .at least that is the case here.
There is something about morning that is holy to me. Once, chores are started or a television is turned on or a phone rings . . .well, such things seem to break the spell. Each day and night can hold sacred times, but for me it is the morning, most of all. It is for this reason, that I rise so early, especially on the days I work. I first take in to account my dreams, which mostly come in flashes. I pray next and I like to write in the morning, for that is when all sorts of thoughts seem to ascend upon me. By now, I am drinking coffee. There is such a purity present in the first hours -and truths seem more evident, upon my waking. Even the sorrows of yesterday “get put in their place” in the morning. The night , seemingly, having stolen, at least, some of their fierce thunder.
The birthday dinner was at one o’clock. I went early to fry the cornbread there. It was a smaller gathering than usual, as several family members were out of town. We were not short on food though. Mama ought to not to have to cook for two days, as we left her well stocked.
She is hoping Daddy will take her out to eat anyway . . .and I bet he will.
I drove home, from Elizabeth City, a bit later in the day, than I usually do, on Sunday. The sun was a buttery shade of yellow and was descending on the pewter horizon. It was not bright enough, to cast a shadow of trees in winter, on the barren fields. The low, golden glow of the evening gave the landscape a kind of serenity, as if the heavens were singing a benediction.
The weekend had been full and busy. On Friday night, I had stayed home with Lyla and Brynn, while Will and Jenny attended the wake for Miss Claudia. All was going fine, til Brynn started a crying jag. As I was walking and singing to her, Jennys’ elderly and beloved dog made a puddle on the floor right near the back door. Within seconds, Lyla came running and stepped right in the middle of it. She slid several feet, which sent her to wailing – and of course, the phone rang. I could not hear a word of the caller and simply said “please call back”. Brant and Sydney came in ( a welcomed sight) and got Lyla in the bathtub and cleaned the puddle. Brynn remained on her mission to “disturb the peace”, til Jenny came in about half an hour later.
The services for Miss Claudia, were held on Saturday. It still seems so shocking to write that. It was comforting to see the large attendance. Many had driven several hours to pay their respects, and I think that speaks well of my friend.
Afterwards, I dropped in on Miss Thelma, while I was there. Miss Thelma lives right across the street from Jenny, in a rambling old house on the laughing river. She lives with her husband, who is ninety six and bed ridden. Miss Thelma will be ninety five in March, and she was planning a birthday party for herself, on this day. Despite her advanced years, Miss Thelma seemed so youthful as she planned her event. Miss Thelma is very sharp in mind, but terribly confused about the ways of modern society . . .so am I.
It was pitch dark, when I pulled in to the rabbitpatch, for I had stopped by Mama and Daddys’, first. This is Mamas’ birthday week. We will celebrate on Sunday, so there are lots of secrets just now.
Christian helped me get my things in while Cash pranced around and Christopher Robin purred. I was in my “house clothes” within minutes. Now, it was time to “wait for Monday”, which always changes everything.
I have not yet chosen my next winter study or else I would have read. All I know, is that I am going to study some light subject- I am not in the mood for any subject that requires me to dwell on anything that can be even remotely gloomy -or that requires a lot of complex thinking.
I noticed, that the he spirea bush is just beginning to blossom. I love the delicate masses of fairy tale flowers. The stark white flowers appear before the leaves and so there is an illusion of floating flowers. It is mighty early for the spirea to show off, for we are likely to have at least a “hard frost” from now to April. The last weeks have been spring like, and it seems the spirea does not “look before it leaps”. I am hoping against all odds that the peach tree does not follow suit, for the palest pink blossoms of the peach, are some of my favorite. I think I could sell the farmstead, quite easily, if the peach tree stayed in bloom.
It seems to me that February just arrived a few days ago, but alas, Valentines’ Day looms just ahead. I like this day, though I do not participate in any ridiculous expectations of the day. To me, that would spoil every thing. Besides, I have fond memories of paper hearts and wilted wildflowers, that I hold dear -and remember in February. Mama used to make a heart shaped cake for us on Valentines Day. I thought they were beautiful and so fancy. I will probably bake something or make heart shaped pancakes at the rabbitpatch for supper. . .and maybe I will bring a sprig of that spirea in, too. Simplicity keeps holidays so pure – and manageable. “Big productions” just wilt me, anyway.
Speaking of “big productions” . . . I do not watch the evening news, as I used to. I do try to catch the local weather, so I will know whether or not to warm the car up, the next morning and what kind of clothes will be suitable, too, but I have tired of the relentless negativity. I am always shocked at the types of crimes being committed, for they are quite bizarre and unnatural acts. Then there are the “band wagons”, loaded down with a slew of unhappy folks. It seems to me that everybody is fighting about something. There are more “life styles” out there than I dare to imagine . Health scares are a dime a dozen and on and on it goes, til at long last, thirty minutes have passed, and dinner is ready, if you can still eat.
If I sound old, it is because I am that old.
Oh how grand that the sun til sets in the west as it always has-lighting up the sky with ceremony at the end of the day. The stars take their familiar places and somewhere, little paper hearts and scraps of old lace adorn a kitchen table . . . and maybe there is a mother, making a fancy, heart-shaped cake.
I came to Elizabeth City, on Friday, after school with high hopes, of all sorts. The drive was really beautiful. The three rivers, I cross were full of shining blue water. I thought of the poem “Song of Hiawatha” as I went along. The day was mild and the forecast was that this would continue for a few days. I expected this would mean a few strolls around the village with Lyla and Brynn over the weekend.
I expected we would all go to Miss Claudias’ shortly after I arrived. She and I had a project to work on, after all. . . one I devised and she was ready to rush headlong in to! We had talked about it at the beginning of the week. The doctors said, Miss Claudia had but a few months left. The news had been crushing, but Miss Claudia kept us all lifted by her example. She did not complain but instead went on about her business.
Will was spending nights with his mom, so I thought to stay with Jenny and the little girls, would be helpful. I was already working on a long term plan. Christian said he would stay, when I couldn’t.
Will drove up just a few minutes after I did. Miss Claudia was sleeping, so it looked like I would see her the next day.
On Saturday, Will came in for breakfast. Miss Claudia was not yet up. Jenny and I thought we could take lunch over, but Miss Claudia was not yet up at noon. I was concerned, but pushed it aside. By around three, Jenny called the hospice nurse. The nurse came and my worse fear was confirmed -Miss Claudia died early on Sunday morning. She just went to sleep and peacefully drifted away from us, and so very gently, like a sparrow, bound for home.
We are all in a state of shock. Of course, we are all heartbroken. It seems like we are all in a horrid daze. Will, was shaken as I have never seen him . Lyla said her “Cici” had become an angel, but she “could not understand, why she had to do it now.”
The last few days already seem a blur. There is so much business to be taken care of with a death. The first time, I went to her house, was awful She wasn’t there and the whole thing seemed shocking all over again. We were all busy and exhausted, so that when a brief lull occurred, . . . I was sorry, for the hurt welled up inside, reviving the tragedy all over again.
One day the weather was especially. mild. Will was tending to all sorts of arrangements and details. Jenny was doing paperwork and I decided to take Brynn for a stroll. It could have been a day in April. Birds were singing and in the distance, I heard a tractor. I felt homesick, for lack of a better word, for everyone and for happy times. I know we are told repeatedly, to “live in the moment”, but this does not mean we must abandon all memories and so on this day, I indulged myself, til I was quite filled with melancholy.
It makes no difference the circumstances, loss is hard and may be the worst burden this life offers. We miss our loved ones, pure and simply put. Certainly, we are all glad that Miss Claudia was spared further suffering – we are all glad her passing was peaceful, but that does not bar us from the painful, deep ache of losing her.
The one time, that Miss Claudia cried about the whole affair, was because, she wouldn’t see Lyla and Brynn grow up and that Brynn wouldn’t even know her. Now that, still makes me weep. . .hence, ” our project” was born. I thought to create a journal , to tell Miss Claudias’ “story and she was every bit as excited, as I was. It was one of the last things we talked about. Rest assured, the project will go on, for the dear sister, “Julia” also known as “Aunt J” has agreed to help me.
I drove home on Wednesday under the same fair conditions, of the last few days. The service for Miss Claudia is on Saturday, and a lot of things had been taken care of, but how I wished I could have done more. To see the young shoulders of Will, bearing such grief and my Jenny caring for the children in the midst of it all, caused me to want to turn around and race back to the rescue. It felt so odd to just return to the routine of my life, as if something significant had not occurred.
When my grandmother died, I was annoyed that the world just went about its’ merry way, as if it didn’t matter that we lost a beautiful light, which seemed to drastically dim the planet. That very night, a full moon rose and shined like all was well and I couldn’t understand how Thanksgiving came anyway, when Uncle Randy had just died.
I know full well, this may be peculiar thinking, but such thoughts do pop in my head. . . much, like the wild dandelions, that spring up without fair warning.
A lot of people declare that January is the longest month. I suspect that the commotion in December and the New Year celebrations causes us to get used to a state of perpetual motion. The quiet of January is in such stark contrast to the gatherings and excitement, the carols and the many details, of the holidays. Even the food is reduced to average meals- and evenings are quiet affairs with soft blankets and books, or crochet or a good film. Of course, I feel partial to months like January, on account of this. The world needs January, I think. Solitude and quiet times are so seldom, and so very profitable . January is a fine time to sort your thoughts and to reflect – and certainly, there is no harm in that.
Every season holds my favorite kind of days, for I am surely fickle. I declare in winter, that the sunsets are loveliest. I love a bit of snow and a cheerful fire. I like early suppers. Then in April, I nearly swoon when I see the wild violets and proclaim, spring my favorite, after all and on and on I go til the honeysuckle blossoms and the wild rabbits have their young ones. . .and then there is the first crisp day in autumn , when the trees are adorned in scarlet . . .and then the holidays are truly so magical, well, I am just hopelessly in love all of the time, it seems.
I continue my winter studies. I have been studying the Bible-specifically, the teachings of Jesus. This caused me to do a lot of self examination and I came up quite short of “admirable”. Thankfully, I do not act on all that pops in my head nor do I say it. You would think at my age, it would be an easy course, to practice my faith – but you would be wrong. I am as liable to falter now, as ever. I spent a good deal of time pondering my desire for a pure heart and my feeble attempts to claim it. In the midst of my complex and deep thinking, I decided it better to be a robin, for the robin, I was watching, did not seem to be contemplating a thing ! The absurdity of this thought made me laugh and startle the poor robin. . .still, I thought about the common little bird-I supposed he was happy being a robin, for no one told him that he ought to be an eagle and it was perfectly fine with him that he did not have the prized voice of the nightingale . . . I could stand to take a few lessons from that robin, I thought.
In order to regain a sense of balance, I resumed my reading of “Elizabeths’ German Garden”. The book has some lovely passages, most especially, if you like gardens. If you are not a gardener. I fear this book, is not going to be of much interest to you. Even if you are, you are not going to burn the biscuits, because of this book. First of all, it took a few chapters for Elizabeth to even leave the garden. Clearly, Elizabeth feels more tenderly to her flowers, than she does any person , still I liked the book, and may read it again. It was written in 1898 and so the vocabulary is wonderful and besides that, I like reading of a time past.
I have not watched one iota of television for a week. It was an experiment of sorts and Christian was in on it too. As you know, I did a lot of reading and the house stayed tidier than usual, too. I went to bed earlier and one night I made gingerbread, from scratch. I do not have time to watch a lot of television, but I admit I missed hearing the familiar voice of the weatherman as I was cooking supper and I was always wondering which old film was playing. The results are, Christian and I agreed, that we are going to adopt a new habit regarding television.
I am going to Elizabeth City, after school tomorrow. I am packing all sorts of clothes. The days have been cold, for the south-and the nights even colder. We have not had a single snowflake, though. I simply can not imagine the frigid conditions north of the rabbitpatch. Last year, for the first time in my life, the temperature dropped to -6 degrees F! I had to check on the water pump and without proper clothing. I expected to perish at any moment. Conditions are not so drastic now, but it is cold, none the less.
Rest assured I will call on Miss Claudia, when I get to Elizabeth City. She was so happy to know that she has a fan club of rabbitpatch readers, praying for her. t means everything to her . . .and to me too.
“More things are wrought by prayer, than this world dreams of.” -T.S. Elliot