Thank goodness for “Do Not Disturb” mode. And, thank goodness for my mom.
This morning, I woke up to more than 100 text notifications – nearly all of them from the one and only Lisa Halle. In rapid succession, photos of each of my 11-year-old poems poured in.
With the onslaught of 102 raw reflections of a time that is best described as a cloudy, emotional blur, I opted to look over just a few of them. In fact, I’ve only read three from start to finish.
I have no concrete plan of attack. I also won’t kid myself by assuming that sitting with my past words will be an easy endeavor. It will happen though. Because as my dad always said, “don’t do things half-assed.”