you’ve got to be kidding. could you people please come up with a new word! or has this become your tradition? i’m gonna hurl if i see it again tomorrow. speakiong of hurling, my downstairs neighbor has the flu and hurled for five days. bless her.
Breezy
Still the same, not moving, yeah. The word comes from “pulling,” right? Burden, heaviness one cannot unshackle oneself from, the opposite of life.
Oh my God, are they ever going to change this word? How many times can you write about the same thing? Well, you can:
It was my cousin’s tradition to call his ex wives every New Year’s Day to wish them a happy new year and to see how they were. Four of these women existed for years; his marriages were spaced apart in such a way that all the women were about the same age, so the likelihood of their all passing from this world at the same time seemed well, unlikely. Seemed, I say. But as it turned out, they all died in the same year.
He was devastated.
“No one called me to tell me about any of this.” Telephoning at the time was the way news like this got from place to place. There were no posts on social media to tell you about the death even before the person who died knew it, the way there is today.
“Well, who died?”
“They ALL DIED.” He blew his nose and sobbed.
“Tom, you had a terrible time with most of these women.”
“Not all. Two of them I think I still love. Loved, that is.”
“Which two?”
I already knew the answer. Beth and Margaret. Like two of the sisters in Little Women.
He had loved them both for years before and after he married them. And they were, in fact, sisters.
“Do you remember how that happened?” he asked me. He wanted to reminisce I could see, so I pulled a chair to where I was standing by the telephone and sat down. He was a great story teller. Just not a great husband.
you’ve got to be kidding. could you people please come up with a new word! or has this become your tradition? i’m gonna hurl if i see it again tomorrow. speakiong of hurling, my downstairs neighbor has the flu and hurled for five days. bless her.
Still the same, not moving, yeah. The word comes from “pulling,” right? Burden, heaviness one cannot unshackle oneself from, the opposite of life.
Oh my God, are they ever going to change this word? How many times can you write about the same thing? Well, you can:
It was my cousin’s tradition to call his ex wives every New Year’s Day to wish them a happy new year and to see how they were. Four of these women existed for years; his marriages were spaced apart in such a way that all the women were about the same age, so the likelihood of their all passing from this world at the same time seemed well, unlikely. Seemed, I say. But as it turned out, they all died in the same year.
He was devastated.
“No one called me to tell me about any of this.” Telephoning at the time was the way news like this got from place to place. There were no posts on social media to tell you about the death even before the person who died knew it, the way there is today.
“Well, who died?”
“They ALL DIED.” He blew his nose and sobbed.
“Tom, you had a terrible time with most of these women.”
“Not all. Two of them I think I still love. Loved, that is.”
“Which two?”
I already knew the answer. Beth and Margaret. Like two of the sisters in Little Women.
He had loved them both for years before and after he married them. And they were, in fact, sisters.
“Do you remember how that happened?” he asked me. He wanted to reminisce I could see, so I pulled a chair to where I was standing by the telephone and sat down. He was a great story teller. Just not a great husband.