Crazy Talk

Yes, it's 1:36 in the morning and, yes, I'm awake. But on to more important matters.

As some of you may know, my sister got me into the nasty little habit of journaling five years ago. The entries--one for each day since--have little to do with the particulars of each inscribed date and more to do with thoughts of those days. At the end of each year, I go back and read every one, ranking the ones I like most. Why, you ask, do I bring up the topic at a time better left for sleep?

Because this past year, as one might rightfully imagine, my entire world became a tale of Buxton. My writing succumbed accordingly, and most every day has some thought bent toward the little wonder. Which would be all well and good, were it not for said ranking--an effort currently ongoing.

I will not say picking one entry instead of another is like choosing between children, because I know better now. It is, however, like choosing which of my own teeth I might leave alone and which ones I might set on fire. Either way someone gets hurt, and someone is me.

Tonight I eliminated the night we went into labor, a writing of readiness for our son that ended mid-sentence with news that changed our lives forever. Tonight I eliminated a depiction of my wife singing sweetly to our unborn child only a month after we knew to expect him. How can such things happen? How can there be no space for such miracles?

When this list finds daylight, it promises to be spectacular. But, if you see me in the meantime, be little surprised if a handful or two of hair is missing.