A quiet moment. A few people are close to your thoughts today.
It's been three months — and his mom had surgery back in March. You wanted to check how she's mending.
Her birthday is Sunday. She's the one who kept Saturdays for you — it would mean the world to hear your voice.
He moved to Lisbon in the winter. You meant to send the Pessoa book — it's still by your door.
Her daughter starts kindergarten this fall — she was anxious about it last time you talked. A small note would land.
That's enough for today.The rest will keep.