Wish Fio well. If things go according to plan, she will be working on her office all next week. She'd taken care of a good half of it before Husband stated on his downward path, but that was more than a year ago, and this time she has to not only finish the room off, but decide what to do with her plenteous piles of manuscripts.
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Fiorella's a little nervous. She hasn't received any mail--even an ad--for two days running. Does the post office know something she doesn't?
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It's very cold in central Texas right now, relatively speaking. Somehow we went from summer's three-digit numbers to freezing temperatures without a trace of in-between. What happened to autumn?
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Sonia Dog always gets Fio's leftovers so, of course, she (Fio, not Sonia) wrote a little poem about it:
A plate for me
Means a wait for you
To get what is left
When I am through
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Fiorella has learned that she can't control the lives of others--or even her own life. What happens, happens, and all she can do is try to make the best of it.
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