good ol' regular

It's Wednesday night. I'm overfull from dinner - breakfast for dinner, to be exact. Seth made old fashioned waffles topped off with blackberries, I made a chorizo-sweetpotato-greenchili-corn-onion hash. It was damn nice. Now we are both on our respective computers clicking away with the dishwasher in the background. It's cozy. It's home.

I wrote a new song last week, or maybe it was the week before. I can't keep track of the weeks. Seth says this song is the home to my best lyrics yet. I can't help but be, in the vein of Marilla Cuthbert, "real proud" of it. I can't stop playing it. I've now played it for two of my best friends here and I just want to keep playing it for anyone who will listen. Last night, I almost asked my little preschool music class if they wanted to hear it. I'm shameless.

It, my new little ditty, is called "the scent of honeysuckle". At least for now.

It's not a happy song, but it's not a sad song, unless you know that I wrote the second verse while I was at my Dad's deathbed. What a funny thing, a deathbed. A bed on which you know you are going to die. Deathbed.

These subjects keep coming back to me. I'm ok with that.