Every day, someone comes to visit. Sometimes, Lynette drops in as I choose to write with a particularly fine tipped pen and I remember how she liked a broader, fuller inked variety. She also waves when Ezra checks his mood ring to see how he's doing. Holly looks over my shoulder when I wash dishes in the wrong order or when I prepare the front step before visitors arrive. Kelli is at my elbow when I'm laughing uproariously or barely holding my temper as I try to be kind. My mother and Janet often return from the grave, sometimes as I misstep and struggle as a parent and often in the flutterings of my imagination as I stare out the window. Mrs. Goolsby points out literary devices in poetry and fiction that I'm reading and Mr. Disney helps me remember to foster Ezra's love of science over "teaching".
Then, yesterday morning, as I washed the dishes, my mom said, sipping her coffee, "You know you're getting old when you have all these 'visits'." Oh well, at least I'm not alone.