It’s me, yesterday at the beach with Boy, tired, written out, thinking about the Holidays, about the goings on here, about myself, about the future which is unknown.
The month of December.
I wish I could be having the Christmases of my past. When everyone I did Christmas for was still alive.
I feel like a ghost.
What I am going to try and do is make my grandmother’s cookies. I’m going to have four trees. One real one, one pine cone one I want to make, one twig one and the one I will show you that was so much like one my grandparent’s had in my childhood.
I bought a little camera, a Sony Cybershot — the battery is charging, but I’ll take pictures of what I am going to make and put the recipes.
I actually really like this picture. I think it looks like a picture of a writer, which is what I have become.
ps: I am going to read what I wrote, now. “Dreamstime.” I’m almost afraid to see what I said? Maybe that happens in first person POV.