Beagles and Bluebirds

This is a picture of our back yard.

See the gazebo back there in our neighbor's yard? This morning, Vicky came rushing out into the kitchen: "David, come quick!" she said.

I rushed back to the bedroom with her and she pointed out the window with a big secret smile on her face. Look out there at the gazebo!

I looked. There were three deer trying to squeeze their way under the gazebo, for some unfathomable reason. Beautiful day with the sun shining down, and they're trying to get into the shade.

I'm glad I've got the wife who, when she sees such a thing, doesn't just say, 'Huh,' to herself and go on with her day. I'm glad I've got the wife that thinks it's a big deal, enough to call people over to see: "Can you believe it? Deer under the gazebo! And look at all the bluebirds flying around the yard. Things are really hopping out there!"

As I was writing this, she tiptoed back into the kitchen, put her finger to her lips and said, "David, come -- hurry!"

This time she laughed under her breath as she pointed up at the rain gutter. I looked, and there was a bluebird tail poking into view. The rest of the bird was obscured by the gutter, which the bluebird was very diligently trying to clean out. Leaves and dried pine needles were flying off the edge of the gutter with abandon. I said, "Good little bird. Just keep moving around the house. That way I won't have to get up there and clean the gutters myself."

Vicky smiled again and posed with balled up fists and flexed arms: "They're just such husky birds. No flitting about for them."

The other day I was walking home from the bus and passed a house with two beagles in the backyard. They saw me and started setting it up, one in particular was howling to break your heart. I wished so badly that Vicky was there with me at that moment. Because then I would have been able to look over at her and see her face beaming with pleasure as she watched those two little dogs.

In parting, may I offer a two-second video I took Wednesday night when she came back from chemo:

Celebrations Potpourri

One

Last night was our first tri-weekly Pre-Chemo Dinner!

Everyone was there except our distant son far away in the land of New York, whom we missed very much. The food was fantastic: fruit bowl extraordinaire from the G and D, honey cake from D and B, a lovely salad from Parker, and teriyaki chicken cooked on the grille.

Vicky loved it all. She kept raving about how good it tasted.

Here we are listening to Parker's latest tracks he's mixed and composed. Sterling stuff. B compared his voice and musical sensibility to Brandon Flowers, and everyone else said, "Of course! That's what it reminds me of!"

Two

When Vicky went to church on Sunday in her new fire engine red dress, long black knit sweater, lovely scarf, red hat and black shoes, one of the ladies said, "Why, you look like you stepped right out of a fashion magazine!"

Three

The other day, a lady at Intermountain Healthcare spent a lovely time with Vicky helping her try on wigs and showing her various ways to do up her head. Here's a montage.

My favorite is the one that makes her look like Billy Idol.

Funny thing. She took three wigs home to try out, and she hasn't worn any of them out in public. She likes the clean look that a scarf/hat combination gives, and I'll have to admit -- while the wigs are very beautiful and fun on her, she looks especially sharp with the scarves and hats.

Four

It is really funny to hear Vicky go on about food. Very rarely does she have anything that tastes good, so she eats very little, which makes her hungry, so food is constantly on her mind. She ponders how a bowl of oatmeal with raisins might taste, or wonders if she should try eggs again, or philosophizes on the reasons other chemo patients like chocolate and she doesn't or bemoans the fact that ice cream just doesn't have the same zing that it used to.

But most of all, she fantasizes about...

Walnut Shrimp!

When I call every day to check up on her, she often will bring it up. And this afternoon, she actually called me, and told me I was meeting her at China Platter for... ta da da dah! Walnut Shrimp!

It was a wonderful evening and she enjoyed it oh, so much. 

Two fortunes this time:

Vicky's: Good fortune is coming your way.

Mine: A previous misfortune will soon turn to your good luck. 

They're going up on the fridge.

Treatment Two

There is distant music, just out of earshot, that's been thrumming on the wind since the grandfather clock in the dining room gave over its last happy Saturday second into a more somber Sunday morning. It is now the week of Vicky's next treatment, and that carries with it hope and not a little melancholy.

She has been so bright and active, starting innumerable projects last week, shiny and thankful and so present and loving to everyone she sees. Yet she knows what's next, what needs to be done. There is something deeply heroic about the clear-eyed way she faces this. There is a determined set to her shoulders and steel in her step that awakens the most tender feelings. It's not just a visit to the clinic: it is a primal, important, vast part of life, and I find myself catching my breath to see the grace she carries to it.

Shopping Spree

I'm sitting here listening to First Aid Kit playing Simon and Garfunkel's America. Our beagle Lexi is sprawled sleeping on the day bed beside the desk. It's cold outside and the sky is darkening with the end of the day, but here in the office it is warm, the shades are drawn, and a single lamp casts a warm light on my desk.

In the next room, Vicky is sleeping, blankets mounded high over her. Thirty minutes ago, we returned from a day out on the town. This is Vicky walking to the car...

We set out to buy her a single nice dress, one that she could feel pretty in as she went out into the world. But the prices were good, and I kept seeing dresses that might look nice. Each time I held one up, she looked at me shyly and said, "Really? We've already got one." But I was serious, and we walked out with four absolutely stunning dresses that Vicky loves.

"Now, shoes," I said. Vicky peered at me as if to decipher whether I had taken leave of my senses. 

"Shoes," I said again. 

"But I have shoes."

"To go with these new dresses? Look at the ones on your feet. They're bedraggled. You can't wear a new dress with bedraggled shoes."

She peered at me again, a curious smile on her face. "I've just never seen you this way before. You're usually so - I don't know - careful."

"Some men buy their wives convertibles when they're going through something like this. The least you can let me do is buy you a few dresses and some shoes."

At the shoe store, just for fun, we pulled down some boots and Vicky tried them on...

Fun to try, but she settled on some really cute dress shoes she knew she would wear. 

On the way home, Vicky was tired, but talkative:

"I don't think I've done such a thing ever in my life."

"Such what thing?"

"Buying so many clothes all at the same time, just for me."

Wow, that hit me. What have I been doing all these years that I've never done that for her? Granted, I have a veritable allergic reaction to even stepping foot into a clothing store, but look what I have missed: That look of unbelieving pleasure on her face, that dawning realization that she is worth enough to spend money on, that she has someone there who wants her to feel beautiful.

The last few weeks I've been feeling like a dizzy teenager that finds himself unbelievably holding hands with the prettiest girl in the school. This terrible thing she is fighting, instead of casting a pall over us, has made the air sharp and clear: Here's a lady that has stood at my side for over three decades, and I'm only now realizing what a lucky chump I am. 

A Perfect Head

Got a text at noon from Vicky. I thought it was an autocorrect problem, so I asked for clarification...

That is so like her. Just a matter-of-fact statement: "Hair falling out today."

I thought to myself: If there ever is a day that needs to be marked, celebrated -- acknowledged -- it is today. This woman is losing one of her great marks of beauty -- her natural blonde hair. Not a trace of gray in it, just rich brushstrokes of gold and flax, brilliant in the sun, soft in the lamplight.  

I wandered around City Creek, looking for something to mark the occasion. I read somewhere, and it rang true, that these milestones should come with prizes. Found myself in Nordstrom, wandering cluelessly through the women's department, completely out of my depth, but determined and desperate to buy her something nice and finding myself crying as I walked past the dresses and the purses and the perfume and the sales associates. 

So silly.

I finally found a couple of gifts, then headed over to Harmon's to buy a cake, then jumped on the bus.

When I got home, Parker was busy making dinner...

It was a lavish and decadent spread...

And we all were in heaven...

We were so honored to have Parker there. This whole occasion only came up this afternoon, and Parker immediately sensed the magnitude of it. He had a very important appointment with a fellow musician to do some song co-writing in the basement. He'd already had one appointment with the guy fall through, so this was a big deal. When he found out about Mom, he promptly canceled the appointment and spent the whole evening with her. Even cooked her dinner. 

And that was probably the happiest time of the day for her, eating the superb food that her son put before her, hearing his cheerful talk about the adventures he'd had acquiring the ingredients and his near-miss cooking the beans.  

In the meantime, members of the family from far and wide sent emails about Vicky and her great hair adventure. Here are just a few:

From Jane:

"As Grandpa used to say, "God only made a few perfect heads. On the rest he put hair." Vicky must have a perfect head.

From Sarah Jane:

Make sure to save a few strands for Mr. Ollivander. I'm sure he could make good use of them.

(Parker had to remind me that Mr. Ollivander was the wand-maker in Harry Potter. I had to agree with Sarah Jane that Vicky's hair certainly does have potent magic in it)

From David:

"Ellie and Brooke are excited to wear pink wigs in solidarity."

From Farrell:

"Stars will fall from the sky"

From Laura:

Vicky has such a wonderful nucleus of support, and this, we're sure, will make all the difference in the world.

From Laurel:

"Now?? Tonight??  I think I need more time to adjust!"

From Mom:

Instead of women the world over imitating the beauty and style of Vicky’s hair, they will find, since Vicky’s head is bald and she is the golden standard for hair, they will shave their heads also and then try, unsuccessfully, to compete with her on the way to dress them fashionably.

And this funny thing from Claire:

O' my darlin', O' my darlin'

O' my darlin' , Alopecia.

You are lost and gone forever,

Dreadful sorrow, Alopecia.

And then it was time. 

I will not lie. Vicky cried as if her heart would burst as I readied and clicked on the clippers. I thought my own heart would break.

And then, after the clippers made their first clean swath through her hair, she was ok. And when I was done, she was dying of curiosity to see it.

She indeed has a perfect head. And two adorable cow-licks right at her hairline. The other day, Farrell told me that Vicky was a classy lady. And looking at her with that chic buzz cut, I thought: That class had nothing to do with her hair. In fact, she's even classier than before.

I have never seen a more beautiful woman...

Butcher, Baker...

Baker...

Baked...

Carpenter...

Carpented...

She's also a...

Diplomat

Business Relationships Consultant

Medical Consultant

Chef

Fashion Designer

Financial Advisor

Music Critic

Import/Export Broker

Real Estate Expert

Chauffeur

Spiritual Leader

Electrician

Woodworking Artisan

Interior Designer

Best Friend.

Freeze Frame

I got home this afternoon and found Vicky, screwdriver in hand, taking apart the cabinets in the dining room.

What!????

She just shrugged and smiled.

By the end of the day, she had sawn a foot and a half off the bottoms and had them put back together...

This afternoon we sat on the living room couch. I was telling her about my day. Before I got very far, she told me to stop for a moment. She pushed me a couple of feet farther away from her, fluffed up a pillow, lay back, rested her crossed legs over my lap, sighed deeply, then said, with an innocent little smile: "OK. Continue."

We talked for quite a while, warm sun shining in the window, spilling out onto the floor and washing the new mantle with a brilliant white. Outside the Eastern windows, we could see the sunlight on our fence, bringing into sharp relief the crags and texture of the surface. Dust motes dipped and bobbed in the air. It was warm and quiet, except for Vicky's soft voice, asking questions, making observations.

Sometimes you wish you could freeze a moment in time, hold it there forever. This was one of them.

The Forced March

What a great day.

Vicky popped her head up this morning and has been loving the whole day. She got to talk on the phone to her mom and her daughter. She got a lovely visit and some wonderful bread from John and Angie...

Laurel also stopped by. When I was taking their picture, Laurel said, "Wait a minute!" She leaned in toward Vicky, and said: "You need to get us looking like we're having a party!"

Laurel left Vicky with two gifts...

A little more about her Chemo Reminder Pad: As Laurel put it, "If you're in the living room and you need to go into the bedroom to check your phone, you write it down in the pad. Then, when you get to the bedroom, and you've forgotten what it was you went there to do, you simply open up your pad, and then you know!"

She also got a visit from the Howes. They whisked in and filled the house with laughter and the latest news from the ward (and even a couple of secret stories!) I'm sad I forgot to get a picture of them, but here is the lovely lasagna they brought...

At about 3:00 today, Vicky was really hungry. First she wanted Indian food, but then thought better of it and wanted Chinese. I told her I would take her to China Platter, on one condition.

"What's that?" she asked.

"You must first come with me outside and go for a walk."

<Groan> "Do I have to?"

"Yes. You must at least walk across the street and back to qualify for Chinese food."

There was a lot of grumbling, and dawdling. 

"Are you ready?" I asked through the bathroom door.

"You mean am I ready for the Forced March?"

She went quite a bit farther than just across the street. We wound up walking all the way to the church on 4th North. Forced March was an apt description, the way the dogs were dragging her along. Here are Vicky, Mobi and Lexi on the Trail of Tears...

Then, after the Howe's lovely visit, it was time for China Platter! From the first bite of walnut shrimp to the last bite of her fortune cookie, Vicky was transported. When she finished, she said: "This was the best meal and the most I've eaten since I started chemo."

This is her reading her fortune cookie...

"'You have good taste,'" she read.

"In men," I added.

That's a picture of a happy woman. Friends, a nice walk, and good food. Sometimes it doesn't take any more than just that.

A Slice of Ham

I have a confession to make. Let's see if I can explain this...

We've heard all through our lives -- look on the bright side. Optimism chases darkness away. There's a lot of hokum out there about "If you send your wish out to the universe, it will come true" and other such nonsense. But there is also a concept, rooted deeply in my beliefs, in Vicky's beliefs, of "Faith Precedes the Miracle." It was by faith that Moses and the children of Israel walked across the Red Sea on dry ground. It was by faith that Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon. It was by faith that the Mormon pioneers made the Salt Lake desert blossom as a rose.

I believe that. I believe that God works miracles -- in ages past and in our lifetimes. I believe that he loves his children and wants them to grow into the beings he envisions them to be. I believe that he can heal our hearts, our souls, and our bodies.

So now comes the complicated part. When people ask me how Vicky is doing, one side of my brain says that my reply should be like so: "Oh, she's doing so great! There have been some extremely promising studies showing that her type of cancer is often completely eradicated by the chemo drug she's taking. We and our doctors expect that, once they actually perform the surgery, the cancer won't even be there."

And that is true.

And it is also true that Vicky will have to go through hell first to realize that happy end. And there is also a chance that the therapy will not work. There is a mist of uncertainty over our eyes -- we agreed to live by faith on this earth, and to do our best to discern the will of God. To do that, we must live without perfect clarity. It's part of the gift of mortality. It's part of the deal.

So here's my confession: I have a hard time giving that bright, happy answer when people ask how Vicky is. I don't want them walking away from that conversation thinking: "Great! She's going to be fine. There's nothing to worry about." I want people to worry about her, to share their strength with her, even if it is in a very small way -- like a text, or bringing over a bowl of soup.

I don't want her to be forgotten.


I'm resolving today to be more balanced. Even on the bad days, there are bright moments. Moments when her smile fills the room. Moments when she points out the window to show me blue jays strutting in the sunshine. Moments when she comes and sits by me, not necessarily to talk, but just to be close. Moments when I can hear her laughing with a neighbor on the phone, laughter that runs through the house like music.

And there's the moment when I brought her a slice of ham to eat when she was feeling terribly lightheaded, and she texted me a few minutes later from the bedroom:

What a generous lady, to let her husband think that he had come riding in with that crucial slice of ham, just in time to save her life.

One Week, and the Roads are Construction-Free

It's a big day. One week since Vicky's first chemotherapy session. 5.6 percent of the way to when her heavy chemo is over and she can have her surgery. That's 1/18th of the way there.

Way to go!

I asked Vicky to rate today from 1-10. She gave it a 3. But, she said, it's not all bad: I get as much done in a week as I used to in a day.

I did a double take when I heard that. 

But listen to this. Here's her analysis: 

"I think that maybe I'm learning something with all this. For so long, I've had to have a huge project going. And now, I'm being forced to let off the gas. And I've found something out: Everything goes on just fine if I don't have a huge home improvement project going. The house does just fine, my husband and children do just fine. In fact, the house actually stays cleaner when I'm not digging in and improving it."

"Makes sense," I said. "It's like road construction. The road may need some improving, but when there's no construction to actually do the improvement, it sure is more pleasant to drive."

"I'm starting to think that I was a bit too focused on always having something big going on. And I guess I'm realizing that I could be more balanced that way. And for now, I guess I don't have a lot of choice."

"You know what?" she said. "I worried so much that if this chemo flattened me, I would be lying there in bed, chafing that I couldn't be up and at 'em. But actually, I'm OK with being in bed. I'm so tired, I really don't want to be up and going. It sounds like it would take way too much energy."

Now there's a blessing. I have no doubt that Vicky will pop out the other end of all this therapy and surgery and all those other -y's. And she'll have her energy back, excited to dive into her next project. But right now, it's such a blessing that she doesn't have to pine for it, that she can just focus on getting better. 

Happy Week Anniversary, my Love.

Sunshine on a Rainy Day

Today the rain has descended nonstop from a grey, brooding sky.

Here at home, Vicky has perked up.

I've rarely seen more glorious sunshine.

Frozen Cats and Other Sundry Oddities

Three moments...

One

Sister Thomson came by and dropped off some bread and soup for lunch. Just a quick visit -- told Vicky that she put lots of pepper in the soup in hopes that Vicky could taste it better. Here's a picture...

After Sister Thomson left, Vicky and I sat down to a bowl. Vicky kept making happy mmm noises, and finally said, "This tastes so, so good. And I can actually taste it."

Then she started to cry. 

Such a little thing, and it made Vicky so happy.

Two

Tonight, Laura and Cody came by to bring dinner to us all. Here they are with the feast they laid out on our table...

Notice the roast beef right there in the middle? You should know what a remarkable thing it was for Laura to bring that (absolutely delicious) roast beef: She's a vegetarian. :-)

It was a delightful dinner, and afterwards we had a kick watching little Donovan respond to Laura asking: "What does the happy baby say?" and "What does the grumpy baby say?"

Three

We were talking with our son Cameron on the phone tonight. Cameron lives far away in New York City and we miss him terribly. But we get to look forward to regular phone calls every Sunday Night. Here's Cameron with a fake mustache...

We started talking about how medicine really hasn't advanced all that far from its medieval roots. Take cancer for example. You feel just fine, then your doctor says that you have a tumor in your body, and so you agree to going through chemotherapy to be rid of it. Sounds fine, except, one minute you're feeling perfectly healthy, then you allow the doctor to pump all these drugs into your body, and suddenly you feel like you've been run over by a train. 

Maybe we should start using leeches instead.

Along those lines, I told Cameron about another treatment that helps prevent hair loss during chemo therapy. What you do is get these caps, you see, and you freeze them in dry ice until they're deep-frozen, and then while your chemo treatment is being administered, you put them on your head. These caps are supposed to freeze your hair follicles so they don't get damaged. But the caps melt, see, so you have to put a fresh frozen cap on your head every half hour.

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. It seemed like Cameron was trying not to laugh. "Hey Dad?" he said.

"What?"

"Until about halfway through that explanation, I thought you were talking about frozen CATS."

It took a long time before we could stop laughing.

Hibernate and Recharge

I guess it was inevitable. Vicky couldn't really get out of bed today. A couple of forays into the world, but her utter fatigue always chased her back into bed. I was talking with her this evening, and she softly said, almost more to herself than me: "So, so tired. Just taking a shower is a marathon."

The dogs came to visit her while she was reading, and I caught her with this shot...

Now, if you've been reading this blog, you can probably guess how she feels about this state of affairs. She said: "Rest is about all I can do. I just feel so worthless."

I was happy to read her some wise words written by her daughter Genevieve. Genevieve was speaking of last year, when she was pregnant with her second son, Hudson.

I was impressed how much Genevieve's words apply to her mom, too:

"This was a time in my life that was super uncomfortable. By nature I am a busy body. I like to be out and about, living the good life... However, as soon as I hit the six week mark of my pregnancy, my body slammed on the breaks and told me to take it easy. Did I listen? Of course not. Instead I pushed against the call of nature. I stuffed myself in the car and dragged my tired body to the gym for workouts that were much too intense and flattened me on my back for the rest of the day. I insisted on driving the family all over the state for "Fun" family activities that left me drained and grumpy. And when I did allow myself to plop on the couch and devour an episode or two of Gilmore girls (and a bag of Dove chocolates) like my body was craving to do, I was racked with never-ending guilt."

Then Genevieve said: "How often in this day and age are we granted a time to hibernate, recharge and focus on nourishing our bodies? When did pregnancy become a time of self-loathing and regret?"

So true. And now Vicky finds that her body is telling her to hibernate and recharge. It's a good signal to listen to. I hope she can follow Genevieve's advice and know that it is not only OK, it is the right thing to do.

By Small Means

I stopped by Eva's Bakery Boulangerie today, a lovely European bakery on South Main Street in Salt Lake, and bought an almond croissant. It was crispy and moist -- almonds mixed with confectioner's sugar and sweet dough -- a triumph of a croissant. Here's a picture of the bakery racks inside the shop...

I gave some of the croissant to Vicky tonight. She took a bite, considered, then handed it back to me.

"Really?" I said. "You don't like it?"

"It's not that I don't like it," she said. "I just can't taste it. The texture is nice, but subtle tastes are completely lost on me these days."

It made me sad. We've had a long tradition of treating each other to interesting tastes, and now a curtain has been drawn over her tongue. Something to look forward to when this is all over, I guess.

~~~

Every month, Vicky puts up a new message on the blackboard she made (Wood plywood, painted with special blackboard paint, frame moulding around the edges, hung on the wall opposite the fridge). Today I got home to see this new message:

I asked her why she chose that particular message. She said, "You know, step-by-step wins the race."

I think she put it up as a reminder to herself more than anything. Her fatigue is ever-present, though a bit better than yesterday. I was very proud of her reply when I asked her if she thought she would be up to going to the Saturday night session of Stake Conference. She said: "Maybe. But I may not be in shape to go. And you know -- I'm OK with that."

This from a woman with a bat in her hand and an eye for the far fence, who lives the phrase: "Make no small plans, for they have no power to stir men's blood."

But this is the reality she's in right now; she needs to give herself permission to be incremental. And she did pretty well today. She put the glass shelves in the clock and got the lights working...

She put up a new rug by the front door (you can even see the tag)...

She puts some shelves by the window...

did the dishes...

and went to get root beer floats with her honey.

Small things that add up to a pretty good day.

For me, though, the saying has another meaning: Vicky is short. Nobody disputes that. Her children and her husband point the fact out to her sometimes just to earn a backhand slap. I love standing near her and gazing over the top of her head - her hair is a field of harvest wheat, waving softly in the breeze, sweet and golden. 

Small woman, but look what she has wrought. Four children, talented in music, child-rearing, computers, running, nutrition, missionary work, entrepreneurship and spirituality, with wonderful social graces and a balanced, cosmopolitan view of the world. A beautiful, accomplished daughter-in-law, a smart, hard-working son-in-law, three and a half grandchildren. 

By small means are great things accomplished. Who'd have thought that this small, unassuming woman would bring forth so much good into this world?

The Day After

First day of chemo is behind us. Funny thing – it actually turned out to be quite pleasant. The most discomfort Vicky had was a headache and a general restlessness.

The restlessness wasn’t unexpected. When the sun comes up, Vicky’s up, and she can’t bear the thought of resting until the sun goes down again. She’s perfectly fine if someone else might want to take a nap on Sunday afternoon (like, for example, her husband), and sometimes she might even give it the old college try herself.

It’s kind of funny to watch her try to take a nap. She gets in the bed, looks at her Kindle for a while, then pulls her latest book off the shelf and reads that for a while, puts it back, lays there looking at the ceiling for a few minutes, and then gets up.

Who can argue with that for pure efficiency?

Today – the day after – she has stayed true to form. Got up early, did the dishes (which her husband should have done yesterday), tinkered around the house, doing little things like tearing the dishwasher apart and completely cleaning the motor and water delivery assemblies. You know, little things.

Tonight, David brought chicken noodle soup, artisan bread and grapes for dinner. He's awesome that way. Here he is cleaning up:

Vicky loved the dinner. She was a little late getting to the table because she was having a nice talk with her sister-in-law Lynne, who, just this week, is 5 years cancer-free. Yay, Lynne!

But all of this napping without sleeping, and sleepless nights, and the new chemical visitors in her body started taking their toll toward the end of dinner...

Vicky went off to bed (not to sleep of course) after giving Parker and David and I some final instructions on how some furniture she wanted moved. Nothing much, just

* Grandfather clock from the basement into the dining room

* Two hutches from Parker's studio into the sewing room

* Bed and upright freezer from the basement to the garage

* Cedar chest from the master closet to the garage

Parker had been preparing the furniture for moving earlier in the day. And then we got busy. 

David and Parker worked hard...

harder...

hardest.

You can just see the muscles rippling.

And then Vicky came out for a celebration when all we had left to move was the clock...

She's tired, yes. Her skin is a little flushed. 

But she has some loving sons and stuff to move and good food to eat. And a newly-earned knowledge that the first day of chemo is nothing compared to being surrounded by sons who are willing to cook and bend their backs to show her how much they love her. 

Not bad for a second day.

I love the poem The Candle, by Carol Lynn Pearson

I dim, 

I dim,

I have no doubt

If someone blew

I would go out.

I did not.

I must be brighter 

Than I thought.