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These are the thoughts and observations of me — a woman of a certain age. (Oh, my, God, I'm 65!) I'm single. I'm successful enough (independent, self supporting). I live just outside Chicago, the best city in the world. I'm an aunt and a friend. I feel that voices like mine are rather underrepresented online or in print. So here I am. If my musings resonate with you, please visit my blog again sometime.
Monday, March 12, 2012
A tall hot chocolate and a shot of Bruce
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Trifecta
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trail verb \ˈtrāl\
3: to move, flow, or extend slowly in thin streams
The Good That Men Do
She refolded his note on the creases and
tucked it back into her wallet. In the years since he left it on her desk,
she’d only looked at it a few times. But the important thing
was, she knew the note was there, with her always, and she knew what it
said: “You have great insight, you are
compassionate, and you do things all the time that make a difference in
peoples’ lives.”
He had been her friend, and though he was gone his love continued to trail almost imperceptibly through her life, seeping into her heart and
strengthening it so subtly that sometimes she didn’t even notice it anymore.
But then there were other times, like
today, when she reached for that piece of simple white notepaper, with its message scrawled in blue ballpoint, and fingered it like it was a rare treasure.
According to Shakespeare, “The evil that
men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones." Oft, yes,
but not always.
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