Last night the kids drew a big chalk town complete with a movie theatre, library and waterslide park. My daughter proceeded to deliver newspapers to each of the addresses along the route. It became a very intricate game and the construction of new addresses was steady throughout the evening. It occurred to me that her generation of kids will likely be the very last for it to even occur to pretend to be a newspaper deliverer. The kids born in the coming years likely won't even come into contact with newspapers that you can buy off a shelf, let alone ones that get delivered to your home.
I won't visit you this month. You won't call. I will raid your garden and you won't get any of the vegetables. I will make plans without telling you about them. We'll go to the store and not buy you one single thing. Whole books will be read and I will not tell you which ones. I will watch movies and not inform you. The nasturiums will ripen. Last month was different. I changed my schedule and took time off work to be with you. I dropped all kinds of plans for us to be together. You sent me messages, I received them. I picked up food that I thought you would like at the store and sent you pictures of every beautiful thing I saw. I sang with you. We watched the Great Canadian Baking Show. You chose the recipe for the garlic scape pesto and gave me instructions for making the gooseberry jam. I am in August without you. You are in July.
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