A lot has been going on with me since I last wrote anything...
My world is in bloom.
I spent a week in Paris with my love and no kids.
We felt like teenagers again,
finding treasures around every turn,
guardians over of every shoulder,
and the angels?
They took all forms.
It's not like her to have all of her supplies stuffed tightly in a closed armoire. She wants space to make, space to create.
She knows one day she'll get it to be it, to call herself it.
What do you do for a living? they will ask.
I am an artist, she will say. I am an artist.
And then she kept planting. 
Until she had so many different plants growing that she forgot what they were.
She bent down and whispered to them. Soon, she said.
It's almost time.
It's almost your turn.
I'm doing a project for Nanette, scanning all of her letters to her mother on my computer right now. I've finished 1964-1966, at 19 after graduating and moving to New York. 
I told her, after organizing and reading them, that it reminded me of my letters to my father when I was young. Both of us were both more open and honest than I think our parents sometimes wished we would be.
I stayed out at Nanette's Monday night with the boys and her three dogs and thirty cats. She has two outdoor heated condos for the cats.
There was a full moon that night, clear and crisp with a dry 0 degrees.
It happens like a dream. The phone rings. I knew your father, she explains. We went to religious school together, growing up, she continues, and your grandfather was our family doctor. Your cousins told me you were living here in Montreal and gave me your number. Did you know I had a crush on your father? He was so good looking and such a nice boy. The last time we saw each other was when I was seventeen, before I moved to New York.