Postcards to a past

 Peggy,     Oh I have just a few, sadly. I'm not much of a plant parent.      Yeah, struggling with words is a small hell of aging. Cornelia Funke wrote (through one of her characters, a writer) what good is a writer if one no longer cares about the power of words, or something like that. Just don't stop. But I don't know.     Nothing ever happens to me.      No. I don't want to work there. Not now anyway. Selfish, I guess. Of my time, I mean.

Peggy,     Well if he walks away from you, which, as I mentioned in the last one, it seemed like he wanted to do from the outset, let him. You are good enough, someone else will pick you up. It sounded like you already had others that wanted you, his company was just the first to answer back. So, shit, let him go.      I have a picture of her on my dresser. Lately it has hit me again, how lucky I am to have this magnificent person in my life. To hold. To be held by, to have my feelings returned, to care about me. Just amazing, confusing, scary, that she does. Yeah, teenage love adventure.      She owns a small plant store. Small space anyway, she has it packed with so many plants there isn't much room to walk around. I love being there. I help water sometimes. Makes me feel like I am actually giving back, though I doubt it makes up for the damage I am doing.      She is mostly recovered, as I said, but has times ...

 Peggy,     I don't know. I try not to be so weak. Well, feels like weakness anyway, letting my fears keep me from talking, more importantly, doing. That part I don't let her see. But I hope you are right. Most nights the last thing in my head is, give me one more day with her.     Well, I'm not much for complicated repairs, I mean like replacing a whole kitchen or bathroom or electrical stuff. Toilets are easy. Have him call me.      I don't know much about the publishing business, all I can see are what people say and that guy sounds like he doesn't really want your work, you. So, I agree.