Journal: Eight

Eight is a little number, in all reality.


You can count it and not even use all of the fingers you have.

It is one more than seven and one less than nine.

It is the number of hours you should sleep in a night, though rarely I do.

It is the number of steps from my library door to my desk, not even on my worst day do I get out of breath for that short distance.

It is the grade I graduated from Catholic school and ventured into the public arena.

If you add Snow White to the number of dwarfs in the house she broke into you get eight, they were a very small group (pun intended).

It is the age that Ma is in that picture up there.

It is also the number of years she has been gone from me.


In that aspect, eight feels like the largest number in the world, all of infinity, all encompassing, if it sits on your chest (as it does mine this morning) it can suffocate and hold you in place, it is the terrible most horrible number ever. Eight is my least favorite number today.  That will change in time.  About 365 days worth of time.


I love you Ma. To the moon and back.  Sunflower misses you, today and the last 2,920 days.


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