I miss writing here. I miss having something to write about, as if something has shriveled up inside of me, and just lies there, wrinkled and dry. I want to pick it up and soak it in rum. Let it get plump again.
All these big life transitions are heading toward me. One I can see clearly: Hijo will graduate from high school and go away to wherever he goes. The other is impossible to predict. But someday, maybe soon, maybe several years away still, my parents will both be dead. I will have this terrible freedom. I have to figure out what to do with it.