|~A rare, quiet, beautiful moment, brought to you by the letters A through Z~|
"To the library." I say, at breakfast. "We'll read, a lot, this summer."
Other declarations I make: Daily journaling for The Storm. In cursive. And multiplication facts; Essays from Sunshine. Every week. Multiple drafts; Math for Hollywood.
"And chores," I say. "Routine." I pound a mental fist on the table, but my voice cracks somewhere between the first and second syllable when my brain does a flip flop: Who are you kidding?
"At least, we'll try."
"I don't need a book," Hollywood says. "I've got three already."
"So, you don't want to come to the library?"
"Not really," he says.
Then, "You look sad, Mom."
Hollywood came after all, and we chanced upon the Farmer's Market, next door, where the strawberries were ... well, sweet as freshly picked strawberries in June. Hollywood bought and ate a whole pint to himself. I'm sorry that I didn't think to snap a pic of his beautifully stained face. But, since we've decided to do this every Friday morning (routine?) maybe I'll get one next week.