Oh tomorrow, how mysterious be that day.  My desire would be to sleep very late, awake to Irish coffee, a newspaper and nothing much else to do.

I am, however, booked, as they say.

My son and I are shifting into college style teaching.  He is, afterall, venturing into college algebra.  Thus we must bring him up to par in the other areas of erudition.

Were it not for a certain person who makes me loans at 100% interest, we’d not made it.  My son and I.  It’s a risky way to live, but it assures that I’ll be home to tend to the less risky venture of educating a kid.

He’s a tough one.  Getting very handsome.  I see the beautiful girls eyeing him and I think to myself, it’s getting to be that time.  But I stave it off very stealthily to keep his mind on school work.

His social days will come.  By that time he will be educated and better prepared for that time and other times.

Every tomorrow for me, it seems, holds not what I desire for myself, but what I desire for my children.  Until that day arrives for me, when I may do as I please, this is as it must be.

I want to paint.  Write.  Play the violin.  Eke out a terrible living and at times bless myself with the eclectic.  (Seriously, I want to be financially blessed, but something keeps getting in my way.)  I’ve yet to attract a true patron. 

Though I may end up raising my very beautiful and very bright grand daughter.  She’s black, sassy and so smart, that kid. 

I don’t curse the tomorrows.


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