One More Thing to Think About

The Census form came today in the mail.
How many people live in your house, they ask.
Do not include children at college
people in jail, in a nursing home.

This is much easier to correct than the voting registration form.
Where there were once three, now there are two.
We answer just like those who have children in college,
or cousins in jail, or parents in nursing homes.


  1. Sometimes it seems there is no mercy. No rest for the weary. Are there not a million ways that life can slap one in the face?

    My form arrived today. I read this post last night. I thought of you as soon as I saw the envelope.

    Sending hopes for peace,

  2. Patty,
    I was looking through the face book members and found you. There is nothing I can say. Elizabeth was such a beautiful child. I truly wish I had the chance to meet her. My love and thoughts are with you and Richard.
    Margaret Conboy.

  3. Margaret,
    Thank you for writing. I hope you are well.



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How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry