When I go back home to see my family, I love putting my things—suitcase, hat, whatever—away in my old bedroom. When I walk in my room, I turn immediately toward the night stand to see what sorts of botanica my mom has cut from her garden to welcome me home. I'm pretty sure the flowers whisper sweet things to me while I sleep.
Tonight a friend who could use some rest arrives for a few Chicago days in anticipation of this weekend's writing conference in GR. I'm hoping these flowers do the trick.
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