I hope that some day, when I sit down to write, words will turn up again. Words about something other than the two-headed dragon of stress and depression I've been facing for the past week or two. I really don't want to write another word about depression. (There are at least 20 posts on this blog about it. Depression is my co-pilot.) And what's more depressing than reading about other people's mental illnesses?
Instead of not writing about depression, I went looking for my old new camera. My new new camera—the one that I carry around with me all the time and often forget to use—is just a little too fancy for me. It's smarter than I am, and its proud of its fanciness. It tries to help me out by focusing on the dust in the air instead of my daughter's eyes. I thought I might have better luck with the old new camera, the replacement for the old camera with which I was quite comfortable.
I found the camera, turned it on, and...there were pictures on it. Just a few, but I didn't recognize them. Maybe Rob did. In any case, they were from a while ago: Westley's hair freshly trimmed, Ivy wearing pajamas she hasn't fit into in months.