The Home Stretch

by Bella Rum


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Our Youngest on Halloween

I can hear H moving the ladder around and climbing up on the roof. If we ever divorce, it will not be about another woman, it will be about that ladder and his penchant for high places. He’s cleaning the leaves that gather in the many angles of this roof. It’s a handsome roof with lots of interest, but those angles are excellent leaf-catchers.

I’ve heard so many metaphors over this past year. Some of them were incredibly descriptive and accurate and even funny. I wish I’d written some of them down. I heard one this morning. It’s graphic but accurate. I’m paraphrasing. — This last week of the race is like one long, dry heave. We’ve vomited almost all the disgusting stuff up, and there’s nothing left but the heave.

Have you ever heard that we get the leaders we deserve? We choose them to represent us. They come from our ranks. We educate them, grow them, nurture them, foster their ideas, beliefs, and choices. They are us. God, I hate being one of those old people who talks about the decline of our national moral fiber. I’m not a negative person. Really. I only want you to be prepared for the water pressure to drop on November 9 when we all take that collective shower.

Now let me tell you something that isn’t tragic. I recently figured out that I’m allergic to kiwi fruit. My ears itch after I eat it. Is that the silliest thing? It’s only a few minutes and not bad enough that I would refuse to eat it under any circumstances, but I probably won’t put it in my fruit salad anymore.

The Grand Trio is coming this weekend. There’s nothing like innocence to make a body believe in possibility.

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