Okay. So I'm not very good at this. I'm one who is technologically challenged. I remember when we sweated out our stories on real lined paper; we used Scripto pens filled with blue-black ink. I wrote and crinkled up my paper, usually throwing it across the room when an idea didn’t work. So, I’ll resist that urge because my paper now is a laptop, and it’s too expensive to throw.

Am I the only one intimidated by the tone and voice of other bloggers? Secretly I’ve stalked blogs and marveled at the creative voices that speak to my head. That’s why it’s been so hard to post. Would anyone really care about the musings of a middle-aged wannabe blogger?

But today I have lots of time. Time to muse. Today, I’m in a hospital room, watching over someone I love. Mouk as his great-grandchildren call him…my daddy…is at a crossroads. He’s fragile and I’m fragile. We’re playing a waiting, guessing game about his heart. We’ll find out tomorrow whether they’ll tinker with it or send him home.
One thing I know about Dad’s heart. It’s big. Everyone who’s been touched by this man knows that.