The Writer Temporarily Forgets Her Sleeping Companion
I feel quite uncomfortable, to say the least. I’m putting the words on paper so slowly I’m afraid I’ll start to write backwards. It’s just that the ‘scritch, scratch’ of the pen sounds so loud.
I guess I never noticed it before, living alone.
One part of my brain is saying : “Lock him out! Lock him out! He could be a gangster!”
And the other half is partially under the command of my mother, God rest her soul.
I can just see her, waving a ladle at me threateningly : “Aidan O’Callahan, you’d better be a hospitable hostess! Your tomboyish ways will make your adult life miserable! How are you ever going to find a husband?“
I miss her homemade pies sorely, just like her smiling face.
Emma’s a comfort, though, even if she lives in the Big Apple. What that girl finds in journalism, I’ll never fathom.
I like the simple life. Living out here with Scooter and the grumpy pick up truck has embedded itself in me deeply.
Nope, I wouldn’t exchange my life for anything.