Last night, I slept. Six glorious, uninterrupted, overindulgent hours.
Corollary: Helena slept through the night.
Implication: the job due 2 days ago remains unfinished.
We went to feed the ducks yesterday, and that was a very good thing.
For the umpteen-hundredth time I ask Helena to please not remove the bookmark from the novel I'm currently reading (rather, not reading, for want of spare time). She casts the bookmark aside and starts flipping pages.
I embark on a polemical defense of the bookmark and its uses. Helena picks it up — novel on lap, boomark in hand. With a scooping gesture, she uses the bookmark to separate and turn pages. She glances at me, "Mom, the energy involved doesn't make it worth the effort."
She settles on a chapter, placing the bookmark across the open pages as if to hold the book open. It slides shut. Try again. No success. She gives me another look, a raised eyebrow. "Really mom, your bookmark ought to be able to do these things for you. Otherwise, what's the point?"