I got eighty birthday cards. They have been festooning the house for the past three weeks, reminding me of my fun party, and that I am now sixty years old. They've been a good excuse not to dust, but I took them down today. Part of me wanted to put them back up. Trying to cling on to sixty, fearing what sixty plus might bring. But I didn't.
A typical English summer day, it's never stopped raining. The sky is grey and heavy with clouds. Reading again through the messages on my cards, some funny, some touching, some affectionate, some written with love, everyone special, my dark mood was lifted.
Copyright © 2007 Barbara Attwood
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