By Jay Drelinger and MeKel Engel
I want you to know that hope you have a great day🌈
My soul awakens and stirs in the stillness of the early Dawn. I look deeply into the desires of my mind and heart and see you standing there looking back at me with your soft brown eyes. I am captured. 🌹
My journal tells the story of us- a collage of moments that trace our journey together. The inside cover is decorated with a map from our very first visit to Red Butte Garden, surrounded by cards, Valentine’s, and the little post-it notes Jay leaves for me. Each one carries a short, heartfelt message- the kind he sticks to my mirror before I wake up, reminders of love in ordinary days.
Our story began quietly but grew in meaning with every small adventure. We had a few visits to the Great Salt Lake, each one a little braver than the last. I was guarded at first, stingy with kisses. It wasn’t until after a few visits that I finally kissed him on the shore. His touch felt warm, grounding, and healing.
In those moments, I began to realize how much his presence helped me in recovery. I had been learning to heal from substance use and to steady my mental health, but when Jay held my hand or brushed a strand of hair from my face, I could feel the release, like the weight lifted even for a while. His affection became a form of medicine I didn’t know I needed.
Before Easter that year, we went bowling- one of my first steps back into social life. I was nervous, hesitant to enter loud spaces and public places again, but Jay reassured me with patience and charm, turning what could have been an anxious outing until a night of easy companionship.
Another day before Easter, we found ourselves at the park, flying a kite beneath soft spring clouds. I let the string unravel too far, laughing as if drifted out of the park while Jay pointed frantically, trying to get my attention.
That simple, playful afternoon goes into something bigger- our first family Easter 2025. We flew kites again, this time with my son, niece and nephew, mom, dad and sister. We worked together to get the kite into the air- me being the runner (even though I can’t run!)
Around that same time, Jay and I went to a spring rock concert. The band was called Denova- a name that means “do-over” in legal terms, fitting since the lead singer used to be a lawyer. They played alternative and punk rock covers that echoed my junior high days. It was one of my first real dates, and we both dressed up, surrounded by music and theater lights that made everything feel like a second chance.
That summer was filled with adventure. We were paddle boarding on a lake near Alicia’s and our Pastor’s house, my calves burning as we laughed and pushed through. Then came the “Light to Remember” event for the opioid overdose awareness- an evening that held deep meaning for us both. Jay lit a lantern, and I lit one too in memory of friends we’d lost. The glow over the water felt like goodbye and a promise to keep living fully.
Sometime later there was another rock concert in the park with Lake View Church, the kind of night that hums with music, laughter, and quiet thankfulness.
By October 2025, we’d made it a year and a half together. We celebrated with a hobo dinner while camping in the canyons North East side. Rain sounded on the camper roof, the air had a woodsy scent and we shared a small carrot cake- for his sobriety anniversary, and for our love that had weathered storms of its own.
Jay has a way of turning life into an adventure- each weekend, some small surprise, each holiday another sweet memory. One summer day, he even narrated a video of us rescuing a black and white chicken I named Argyle. The rooster climbed from the top of Jay’s SUV onto my arm, rode in the SUV, and found a new home with a kind farmer. Later we visited him and learned he’d been renamed Lucky- free- ranging with s flock and living up to his new name.
We’ve been to three rock concerts now- one on the way home from Evanston, where love lyrics mingled with the hum of the road. The canyons have become our gateway, our picnic place, our quiet refuge.
And somewhere in those moments- between the laughter, the recovery, the music- Jay wrote me a poem,
Photograph of you etched in my mind,
They say an image is worth a thousand words;
and softly I say, “I love you, Jay.”
A Few Years Ago, Before A Relapse But Still Trying
you won’t always see the perfection of the scars
stretch marks, warrior stripes
pondering a new beginning for so
threatened during my best friend’s murder
Kicked out, I went to the street
deep struggle below a cloud of negativity
Doing injections under streetlights
my life thrown away became a fog
The clear rules the mind and heart
cancels your will to live and love.
Tiny white and silver snow globes draw you in clouds cake deep black
Need to stay warm and dry; dark
gloomy figures constantly crossing my path, and I am always on guard
in a deep concrete sea of murkiness
negative thoughts, anxiety obsessively rules.
Three inches by one inch, a jagged line like a vampire bite.
my methamphetamine user stigma for life
but I am my own muse now, a constant work in
progress, until my energy cycles once more.
Now it’s a year later and unique small crystals flurry in downward spirals, they’re mesmerizing and hypnotizing
Firewood burns; distant, the refreshing
ice cream constructing into microcosmic castles
might reside near flat boot prints
Footprints press and crunch crisp snow, deep
future is an enigma of positive vibes
a gift in a cloak of potential.
From Surviving To Thriving With A Relationship Blooming
There was a time when I lived alone in my condo and believed I was building an independent life. I had space. I had quiet. I had the illusion of control. My friend Tiffany stayed over occasionally, and at first it was harmless- company, laughter, someone to fill the silence.
But my PTSD was already whispering in the background. Nightmares. Hypervigelence. A constant feeling that something wasn’t safe. When Tiffany began using drugs in my condo, that whisper turned into alarm bells. I didn’t feel safe in my own home anymore. I asked to move. My parents didn’t understand why I couldn’t manage that.
Eventually, during one of the worst episodes- what I now understand were psychotic features rooted in trauma- I stole my Dad’s work van. I wasn’t trying to be reckless. I was trying to escape a danger that felt real in my body. As a result, I was arrested. That moment became a dividing line in my life: before the year in jail and after it.
My parents began to believe I had schizophrenia. Doctors had already removed that diagnosis, but the stigmas stuck to me like stains. I was labeled in my own home. My roommates bullied me about it. I began to internalize it.
Then my body began to collapse under everything I was carrying.
I developed an abscess in my arm that swelled so badly I nearly died. The infection spread quickly. I can still remember how tight my skin felt, how afraid that my body was giving out. I have a scar now, about three inches long- a permanent reminder of how close I came to losing everything. After that, I moved in with my grandma. I was sober at that time. I was trying to stabilize. I was trying to jusg breathe.
But fear followed me there too.
Even sober, my parents were convinced I was in full psychosis. I knew something was happening mentally- I was disoriented, overwhelmed, fragile- but it felt like trauma surfacing and my brain re-calibrating without drugs. I asked to go to the hospital. I wanted medical help.
That happened more than once. Each time I asked for treatment and was given handcuffs instead or I’d be living out of my car or homeless. Each time I felt less human and more like a problem to be contained. Something inside me began to harden. If asking if help led to punishment, what was I supposed to do?
By the time I was living out of my car, exhaustion had settled into my bones. Then my car was towed. Right after Christmas, it was stolen. I walked through the snow with only a sweater and a blanket, the cold biting my skin, trying to keep moving so that I wouldn’t freeze. I remember thinking, this cannot be my whole life.
Before the homelessness, before the snow, had been another decent.
After being mocked and bullied about being “schizophrenic” I caved. I tried IV methamphetamine. It didn’t start out as rebellion or thrill- seeking. It started as surrender. If everyone believed i was already lost, I thought that maybe I was.
The relationship I was in turned violent quickly. Boundaries blurred. One night he injected me with more than 80 units. I blacked out. I didn’t consent to that amount. I didn’t even fully understand what was happening. It was trauma layered on trauma- control taken from me in every possible way.
Later I switched to smoking methamphetamine, telling myself it helped with the stress. It numbed the meltdowns. It dulled the PTSD. It quieted the chaos for a few hours at a time. But the crashes were brutal. The paranoia worsened. The fatigue deepened. I began believing I needed the drugs just to function, to survive my own nervous system.
I slept in a tent on the sidewalk.
One night someone stole the shoes off my feet while I was sleeping. That summer my feet blistered so badly I had to walk on the sides of them. Every step hurt. Every day felt like punishment.
And yet- I was still Surviving.
That’s one of my epiphanies now: I wasn’t weak. I was Surviving with the tools I had at the time. Attempts at safety. Attempts at control.
After conversations with my parents, my son, my sister and grandma- they made a decision together. The next time I showed up, they would lovingly but firmly ask me to go into recovery.
And when they moment came, I said yes!
I stayed for nearly a year in the hospital. Nearly a year of stabilization. Nearly a year of structure. Nearly a year of learning that healing isn’t dramatic- it’s repetitive, humbling, and slow. From there I transitioned into sober living. I wasn’t just detoxing. I was rebuilding.
Because I had started reconnecting with people from my old treatment days- some of who were slipping back into relapse- it was recommended that I focus more intentionally on my mental health. I was voted to transfer to Beacon House. After first, I was embarrassed.
I witnessed negativity. I saw relapses. I felt the pull of old patterns. And instead of pretending I was strong enough to handle it alone, I allowed myself to be redirected, and that was growth.
Somewhere in that process I met Jay.
At first, I was nervous about our age difference and what he would think of my past. We had small arguments in the beginning, and I didn’t handle them well. I let my emotions escalate instead of regulating them. That was a hard mirror to face. But instead of running from it, I chose accountability. I am now attending a domestic violence class. I am learning to pause. I am learning to communicate instead of react.
We are both working towards new jobs. I just finished my certified nursing assistant training- something that once felt impossible. He bought me a camera so I could explore photography. We share hobbies. We practice coping methods together. We both attend therapy. He supports me in staying consistent were my medications, gently and respectfully.
For the first time I am rebuilding something healthy instead of surviving something chaotic.
I have my son back in my life. I get along with my parents. I visit my grandmas. There is peace where there used to be panic.
I have never been happier in my life.
Not because my past disappeared.
I survived abscesses, arrests, homelessness, addiction, stigma, and violence.
I am a mother present in her son’s life.
I am in a relationship built on effort and growth.
I am no longer just surviving. I am Thriving.
And this time, the growth is real.
I have a future to continue into.
You are a quiet sunrise Blooming behind sleepy eyes,
You are the deep velvet sky the wraps around me like a blanket as you gather me in- a midnight sky stitched with constellations.
Our day opens- petaled and luminous
Good Morning Rituals; That Familiar Scent Brewing and Rising in The Air
Jay woke before I did today. I surfaced from sleep to the sound of his voice—carrying on one half of a conversation with the cat. I lay still and listened for a response. There was only a pause, a small pocket of quiet.
When I rolled over, I found him propped up, scrolling his screen with Lil Bit perched near his pillow like a sphinx receiving counsel. The room was still blue with early light; it’s winter still.
I slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen to make coffee, then opened my journal and let the morning spill out in ink. Lil Bit followed, tail lifted like a question mark, and settled nearby as if supervising the ritual.
After a while I went back to check on Jay. He had drifted off again, rolled into the hollow on my side of the bed, breathing deep and even, a soft snore rising and falling. I left him there and did a short yoga practice, stretching into the quiet spaces the morning offered.
By the time I finished, he was awake. I returned to the bedroom and plopped back onto the bed, the day just beginning to gather itself around us.
We spend a few days, week or two;
I hope for more, make it quality time.
through mental health, addiction—
Toe-headed child in Bear Lake sun,
now intellectual, kind hearted man.
Friendship is the rainbow that appears while the rain is still pouring—color fragments streaming through gray skies; a reminder that storms eventually cease. It is steady as hope when you’re healing from pain, a quiet presence that doesn’t rush your recovery but stands beside you while you mend.
And if you don’t lose yourself too soon—the journey back to sobriety asks less than you feared, and what once felt like loss begins to feel like gain. In time, you realize that getting sober is not only about what you give up, but about what you are finally able to keep: your strength, your friendships, and yourself.
against the warmth of your body,
like honey melting in morning light.
I woke up after 4:30 am this morning. A few inches of snow have settled over everything and Lil Bit is perched in the window watching tiny flakes drift down like they have nowhere else to be.
Jay is still snoring. I’m sitting with my back against the heater, holding a cup of coffee listening to the quiet. My Dad says there’s snow in the St. George mountains. It makes the whole world softer.
My parents are getting old. My Dad’s chin hairs are going silver and they look good with the changes. Time feels strange- they are becoming my grandmas’ caregivers. I hope that when I find a stable job I can help more. Help my boyfriend. Help my parents. Be steady for my son.
Hopefully we can get B to go out of the house while they’re out of town. For now I’ll finish my coffee and start some yoga. Try to build a little strength and warmth for whatever the day, and years ahead might bring. Winter started up again like mother earth can’t make up her mind!
Last night I slept with both feet warm—one tucked beneath Jay’s, the other resting near Lil Bit. It felt like the first small leaf pushing through soil after a long winter of bad moods. We took a quiet walk, talked about my nephew’s birthday with my son on Monday, and came home to Jay cooking mac and cheese with chili. The wind chimes barely touched on the porch, soft as breath between us.
Jay loves Mexican and Chinese food, and I’ve started thinking about how I want to take care of him as we grow older—learning his favorite meals by heart, tending to him the way a garden tends its strongest vine. Our love feels like a seed just breaking open, its roots beginning to braid together beneath the surface, steady and unseen. Like a spiral in sacred geometry, we keep circling back to each other, widening but always connected at the center.
My son called last night and we talked until the social worker came out to wait with me for Jay. He’s going through a breakup, and I’m proud of his courage to speak honestly. I think about him as a toddler, about time moving faster now, and the parts I missed. Love feels different when you realize how quickly seasons change.
Jay and I had a BBQ on the porch. I waited for the salmon to thaw, hoping he’d cook it with me. I told my dad to let Grandma know I have a boyfriend so she wouldn’t worry about me being alone. Both my grandmas once took me in when I tried to stay sober; their care still feels like sheltering branches overhead.
April 11th, 2025 – Pink Full Moon
Tonight the moon wore a pink halo. I read my horoscope at lunch: “New Beginnings.” Jay picked me up and we had a picnic. We’re cooking salmon, asparagus, and potatoes tonight. I’m reading The Night Circus and it already feels like stepping into another world.
Our love feels like that moon—full, glowing, but still growing. Like two triangles meeting to form a hexagon, we balance each other’s edges. There’s an age difference between us, and sometimes I feel protective, wanting to care for him in quiet romantic ways—massages, warm meals, steady encouragement—so that when our hair turns silver, we’ll look back and see how carefully we tended this beginning.
Jay and I went to Lake View and listened to a sermon that made sense. The last song was bright and hopeful. I spoke to my son, spent time with my mom, and she gave me a throat chakra crystal and obsidian. We flew kites, visited Grandma, and I ended the day with tea—honey, lemon, ginger.
I’m grateful for the crystal horse, the boot, the purple cowgirl boots from Jay. Gratitude feels like sunlight; the more I notice it, the more our relationship stretches upward toward bloom.
We tried boba and a lime-sweet lemon drink Jay made while the heat pressed against the windows. Now the air is cool and soft. White and gray clouds drift outside like quiet thoughts. Owl, wolf, cat, and spider are our totems; Jay talks about their ecosystems and what they symbolize. We’re planning moon rituals, crafts for solstices and equinoxes.
He surprised me with a “God box” today. I’ve felt pieces of the hard emotional things he carries, especially when something triggers him. But he’s been opening up more, sharing details of his past and his thoughts. That trust feels sacred.
Watching Lil Bit and the plants on the porch grow, I think about how ecosystems survive through balance. Like a flower of life pattern, everything overlaps—pain, healing, growth. I finally have someone who listens carefully, who remembers my words. I want to nurture him back, to let our connection strengthen like roots weaving deeper into the earth.
I’m grateful for kissing and cuddling. For clean clothes. For hummingbirds at the feeder my mom gave us; Jay hung by the window. For butterflies in the canyon.
We rescued a black-and-white rooster who nestled into my neck; they named him Lucky. Jay is gentle with animals, and Lil Bit adores him. Watching them together makes me think about building a home that feels safe for every living thing inside it.
Sometimes I imagine taking my son to the zoo or Red Butte Gardens with Jay. I want our lives to keep opening outward, petal by petal.
Jay’s car broke down at work, but he made it home safely. A couple at my job celebrated 50 years together; their excitement lit up the room. I said out loud, “Tonight’s a good night.”
Fifty years. That number lingered with me. Love that long must be tended daily, like watering a plant even when it looks strong. I’m starting to understand that romance is in the small things—coffee made, rides given, gratitude spoken out loud.
I woke with a headache and restless thoughts. I worry about not always being the mother I want to be. But Jay was beside me, and I told him how I felt. I’m appreciating him more every day.
This year feels like soil waiting for seeds. I want to journal for my mental health, practice yoga, cook breakfast, set small SMART goals. I want to stay motivated and optimistic.
With Jay, I feel like we’re still sprouting—tender but determined. Like the golden ratio, our growth feels natural and unfolding, each step building gently on the last. I want to care for him as we age, to be romantic in steady, practical ways, to let our roots anchor us so that when storms come, we bend but do not break.
We have new phones working now. Jay fixed mine. We watched the Super Bowl and shared pumpkin coffee he bought because he knew I’d love it. I’m grateful to wake beside someone safe, someone who looks beyond my rough edges and lets me grow.
Healing takes time. I’m learning to invest in myself, to practice yoga, to focus my energy. Sometimes I feel scattered, but my confidence is returning.
Tonight I might surprise Jay with a massage before he asks. I want to love him intentionally—softly, steadily—like watering a garden at dusk. Real intimacy feels sacred to me, something protected and nurtured.
Our relationship is still in its early bloom, but I can see the shape of it forming—two lives intersecting like overlapping circles, creating a vesica Pisces of shared space. I look forward to the day when it stands in full flower, strong roots beneath us, petals open toward whatever light comes next.
Instead of waking up on my own, Jay woke me up today. We got our medications and vitamins in, gathered around the fireplace and played backgammon. I’m new at the game.
Then I journaled and he went back to sleep while I practiced some yoga. My mind wasn’t on my writing so I went sneakily into the room, took a breath of the lipstick red roses and fuchsia lilies proclaiming how lucky I am and what a beautiful day it is going to be. Laid in front of him, silently saying I love you I love you and; out loud, “I love you.” Until he stirred a little. I kissed his elbow and went back to my writing.
a quiet pressure on the left side of my thigh. A small arrival.
like a warm punctuation mark in the middle of a sentence.
I looked down at her, she looked up at me
through sleepy, light green eyes
She curled on the couch, paws and tail tucked beneath her sweet face and drifted into sleep.
Blots spreading across the page
of a pad I jot it down on in my mind.
lighting up like highways at night.
And suddenly the voices pull up chairs between my ears
I know the weight of his voice-
Why did he pause before answering?
petals push from their sepals,
like quiet confessions of faith,
Why do we have to stay awake in the dark?
The sepals open under the light,
But the creepy crawling-thoughts circle,
Still- this small stubborn bulb
through these years of recovery
Growing up—we had Mom and Dad, but if I needed a friend to play pretend for hours, I knew, Shelby, that we would always have each other. Little sister, I will never wish for another. I have you.
Sometimes I’d get annoyed when you interrupted, but if you left me alone for too long, I’d get suspicious. Silence never felt right without you somewhere nearby.
My more adult younger sister—more recently I realized again that she’s the best one to call for backup. It’s not just the big picture; she helped carve me into who I am.
It’s not always the little things, even when you simplify your life down. It’s the people you’d least expect who give you all of their respect, a second chance, and teach you in return how valuable and precious life is—how much better it can be, even when you’ve put yourself down in the rocks through addiction and mental health casualties.
She’s someone I could never give up. I hope I die first. I hope we can rebuild this relationship, and that you’ll know, as time goes on—and as we stand together taking care of Dad and Mom—that you are worth more than anything to me.
And the way you make me feel about what’s still possible is like the first light after a long night—quiet, steady, and certain that morning will come.
Drizzling, descending like new liquid silver paint the rays of the moon infused our moon water while we let the stars vibrate through the dark blanket of a sky above our heads, behind the flicker of candle flame I see your aura. Our hearts beat to the same rhythm playing a melody like the universe picking the strings of a harp. As you inhale, I breath deep and mindfully in the moment. The moon is a glowing ball in a mirror reflecting our two souls as one. This is my story of the last full moon we spent together outside in the cool, crisp clean air.
What will a sentence turn into? If I loosen my grip, write it down as a free write, free flow will this melt into a stream and spill out as a current? I never would have believed that my life would get better in between mental health crises and drug addiction, but my mindset changed from the day I said no more. What if I were to talk about it for a minute then rearrange it into a few more sentences making a story, I feel gratitude, I feel whole, I have a partner who makes me feel like we’re a power couple. My son and family never gave up on me so what if I had stayed on the streets? If I hadn’t come back, I’d never have known.
Outside beneath the wind chimes this morning in the warm sunlight, with beads of sweat gathering beneath my scalp, my legs beginning to tan. I brushed your long strands behind your ear and you kissed me; we drank cacao for the first time, each of us sharing a cup after some coffee. The last bit a dark chocolate residue that tastes like earth. And the wind chimes keep our silence, translating it into something the wind might understand.
lifting six soft clusters on each side,
pink blossoms reaching, directing themselves towards
the morning sun that filters in through our window
You line my medications up each week,
I press away your long days from your feet,
learning the language of your tired muscles.
and in that tending, something grows
like sepals parting to reveal what was always there
feeling your kiss is an electric pulse,
Yesterday and tomorrow is everlasting bliss,
In your arms, time forgets to exist.
Let the universe have some control
So I’ll learn to go with the flow
My mom sacrificed belonging to herself- She’s been our housekeeper, our personal cook, our taxi to dance, school- She’s our safety, our listening ear, our comfort- Our nurturing hug when we did something wrong and needed reassurance that we were still good daughters. She’s our art lessons, our editor, she read novels to us chapter by chapter each night. My dad has never stopped working- Hands caked in thin set and cracked- He cleans them and glues the skin back together. I try to work hard- it hurts. I can’t believe how long he’s worked before and after knee surgery after slipping a disk in his back. I haven’t really given them my full attention- I want to hear their stories from back then. My parents work together and help everyone around. They are the rock foundation to home and the glue holding our family together.
Prose Memoir Chapter 6
the sun whispers through silver-lined clouds.
The cat pads to the door, moewing for outside.
We balance the rhythm of our heart beats
both of our souls holding onto one another on the astral plane
then I’ll wake up and say your name.
hoping to figure something out
A butterfly emerges from my chakra
it’s cold and the pain I’m remembering is too much to bare
I keep myself awake so that I don’t have a nightmare
forcing myself to reflect on something comforting
for I don’t want to relive this
Prose Memoir Chapter 7
to all I have overcome- the vices I left behind
In Child’s Pose, I fold inward
breathing life into what once ached–
to the child still learning to feel safe.
This canyon trip is like any other-
It finds You and I and a packed picnic
Surrounded by green budding all around.
I snap a few still moments, including one of you with a white tree in the background.
Because it crossed my mind that I want to remember everything-
what I felt, what we had been talking about, even what we’re eating
crisp goldfish crackers, cherry coke, and Millie’s
and that’s what makes it different-
We’re living in the moment and I love you more deeply this years
I look forward to years past with all of our strands of hair turned silver
We’ll look back on these days, embrace and talk about what we remember.
Son, sometimes I wish I could get a grip on time and take us back to a sunny day in the sand pile while your wispy blonde hair blew in the wind and you plowed your trucks through the dirt and called yourself Bob. We’d fill it with water and just sit in the mud together and casually talk to each other. So I guess I’m asking if you will lift your head up from the video games and remember to call me more often. Mu favorite past time was getting home from a day of therapy and having a conversation with you. You’d get really excited and describe all the details of something you learned. I think we need to communicate in person more often. Time makes us cherish these memories and find wonderful new ones. I love you and can’t wait until Easter.
I read short stories in a book about zen
then I sifted the litter box until it laid flat.
This is my job in the morning and I appreciate it because the cat has grown to love me too and I see how she loves Jay and I want Jay and the cat to know I appreciate and love them,
It’s my moment of zen after coffee in the morning. Jay is laying on the couch and I covered one foot.
I enjoy listening to his sighs, he works so hard for both of us. I can hear the exhaustion and the relaxation afterward.
Then I watch him kick the blankets off of his ankle and sigh “hmm!”
It’s the second day of April and as if to say it’s April Fools! Yesterday, the white clouds had grey etched into them and came rumbling in with burst of electricity like April showers bring May flowers and today that drizzle turned into giant white flakes. We are surrounded by a chill. You and I press our hands together and the warmth grows. While outside, down comes the flurry of snow.
I hear tiny ice crystals bouncing off of the rooftop
melting and pouring down the window like a white rapid river.
Jay is snoozing, exhausted from work. I’ve been reading a series about zen stories with a cat and some Buddhist monks and I already finished half of Rupi Kaur love poems. I’m drinking up her words like the earth is soaking melting snow down into it’s roots.
Her tail brushes my leg in staccato strokes,
leaving behind a sense of energy- like wet paint.
Her meow says she’s hungry, but it doesn’t fully register until she nibbles at my hand while I rub the back of my palm against the soft, feathered fun along her forehead.
My partner suggests she’s getting “Hangry,” so I open a can of tuna and gently pour out some of the juice, saving enough to keep the rest fresh.
Meanwhile, I’m running through storylines for each chapter in my head, trying to decide which suggestions to keep and which to discard. I’ve started one that includes her.
Now she’s outside in the cool spring air, and soon she’ll be at the window again, meowing, watching with wide, round pupils and waiting for someone to get up and let her in.
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