How the morning passes

I slept in this morning, not because of my usual practice of staying up late, thinking that I will miss something, but because I could not put my finger on the malaise, the source of the gut that put me down. Something I ate?

Sympathy pangs with my genetics? DM has been having a rough go of it lately, a source of concern and advocacy, she the well-trained saint. Gotta get tough sometimes, I say and do. Then again, it is my Boy’s birthday after all.

The trait is passed along, the many nights I comforted his mind away from getting the better of his matter, he curled up tight, not unlike how I imagine him after the two incidents he relates during our happy greetings call.

Being of good conscience and young, frugal and soon a father, he rides his bicycle to work, a twelve-mile journey. No longer, as the soon-a-mother prefers, helmet or no, that he stop meeting other women as they turn right.

He says he likes to go fast. Another gene, male at least: a brother who never stopped until forced (more thrown); my cockroach years, a race held downhill; a gran pere chaser and a great-grand coked fighter. Women wept.

DW shows me the two quarts of tomato sauce from two gallons of fruit she will freeze. I am reading with my first cup of coffee, maybe second, waiting for my mouth to turn, and her accomplishment does the trick.