Thirty-two years...

I spent the thirty-second anniversary of my mother's murder and my father's suicide eating frosted sugar cookies with Belle.  We left a trail of frosted sugar cookie crumbs all over our home and Starbucks.  Belle seemed extra loving and affectionate all day, which is surely what I needed.  Later on, at bed time, Belle transferred some of that loving energy into her picture books.  She somehow managed to spit my lip open as she excitedly handed me yet another book to read.  I found the experience sobering, especially when a light bulb burned out as I sprinted to the bathroom to stop the bleeding, and I realised a load of laundry needed to be done as I hunted for bulbs in the laundry room.  Life goes on, I guess.