I just finished reading this book. It took me forever. Not because it's not a good book. I just have a hard time sitting still to read these days. It's a guilty pleasure.
This one is written by a woman who's husband suffered a traumatic brain injury and had to be placed in a care center. She is left to live her life with her three dogs. She chronicles her thoughts as she moves through the transition of a comfortable life with her husband to living alone.
Near the end of the book she writes how she starts seeing artwork in a different light and begins buying up pieces everywhere she goes, an obsession of sorts. She admits she is not an artist herself and describes how she is more comfortable with words. She writes, "I'm comfortable with words, it secures me to have a pen and notebook even if all I'm writing is butter sugar milk eggs."
I can relate to that.
I have started my annual winter letter writing campaign. I sit in front of my light box and write one or two letters every day. Today I read the end of this book instead. So here I am. I felt like I need to write something ...
butter sugar milk eggs