I long to hold a pencil. Writing any way I can is my great compromise. I read that Grandma Moses painted with her left hand when arthritis made it difficult for her to paint with her right. I’m writing with my damn thumbs right now.

There’s something romantic and sensuous about the act. Graphite pianissimo. Exploring the texture of notebook paper, a journal, or the back of an envelope. Return to sender.

I’m stuffing the envelope which is this notes app on my phone. My thumbs glide and autosuggestion assists and even gets it right. Sometimes.

Thistle and pepper spray.
Love you too baby sting.
In case you want to guess, I won’t be able to make the writer’s meeting.

I made and drank grapefruitcello.