The Writer Gathers Her Thoughts

I have gotten out my journal, and I’m trying to write and simultaneously keep my lunch (or breakfast) down. I’m plagued by thoughts of being airsick (one of my worst nightmares), although that never happens.

Raine has fallen asleep like a brick.

Completely immersed in slumber. If he starts snoring, I’m going to stuff the free plane socks in his mouth.

Scooter’s nagging at my feet, and I gave him another treat. Second one. I’d better be careful – the vet said no more than six. It could make him fairly drowsy otherwise.

My thoughts keep drifting to papa and his welfare. He is true to his Irish blood, and lives in an old, large house (sounds like me in Arizona) that’s been passed down from his grandmother’s time and before.

I have memories at that house, but not as many as the one back in Arizona.

Oh, good old Arizona, with the blistering heat, and the desert and the vultures; the scathing winters and the cold nights.

I miss it already. And very sorely at that.

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