That I am a horrible writer.

Ok, not a writer writer. I'm to vain to think that (even if its true sometimes). No, I mean writer as in someone who writes letters back to people. Who keeps in touch well. I suck at it. I will write letters, but they will never get mailed. One would think this wouldn't be a problem with email now, but no. I have the ability to put it off and off and off until emails get buried under others and then never responded to. I always feel so horrible about this too.

When my friends move, I warn them. I tell them I will think of them often, and I will probably write as well...but I will never mail it. Five years down the road, you may have forgotten me or thought that I have forgotten you, but it won't be true. There are people I knew 10 years ago that I still occasionally want to write to, but, well, its been 10 years! lol

This fault in my personality is very annoying to me. I would love to be one of those great pen pals that can write letters every other week (and send them) but I'm not. I try. I really do. Of course it is worse when I think of my relatives that write me. Ugh, guilt.

Caroline is thinking that it was a rather nice day. She used to feel all weird about Mother's Day. She supposes part of her still does, but not so much this year. There were no expectations or big plans. She simply enjoyed her time with her family. Other than the occational message from friends, it wasn't unlike many other days. She liked that...she would have liked it more if she could have slept in. :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over just a ways, there is a path
It looks so well done
The grass around it looks so green
And the flowers that line it
Seem to be the most breathtaking of all
Pinks and violets and blues
Trees offer leafy relief from the sun
The spotty shade dancing along
The seemingly smooth surface of the path
The path below your feet
Begins to seem so plain.
There are cracks running along the side
The flowers that are there
Seem to have been in the sun too long
Patches of yellow show through the green
How you wish you were on the other path
In wishing you miss the holes
The weeds waving along side the lilies
The uneven tread
That the distant path offers as well