I couldn't sleep last night so I sat on my sofa looking out the window at the falling snow, admitting it was beautiful. And I was thinking very long and hard about a fantastical story that a friend told me last night about the mother of sounds who don't want to be sounds and its corollary of a child who doesn't want to be a child. It was both stunning as a story and of his way of processing having been a child who didn't want to be a child. Falling snow is maybe a sound that almost successfully denies its sound-ness.
And the thought I came away with, which I often come away with, without violating my friend's privacy more than I already have, is that I have very good parents. I think most parents can be credited with, if nothing else, doing the best that they can. For mine, their best was and is pretty darn good. I get to see them in a few weeks and I just might tell them this in person. I hope they already know.