Dear Girls,

Attempting to look thoughtful and pensive :)

Last week I met one of the village's famous citizens. He came to the house, I served him coffee, and while I was studying him I couldn't shake off the notion that he looked a lot like Stephen King, with a wild bush of hair and a squarish face that was, well, strange. One of the fingers of his left hand was cut just above the middle joint. Since it was our first meeting I didn't think it was the right time to ask him why.

Anyway. The man is an educator, one of the country's prized intellectuals; and a writer. What does he write about? He told me, "A mix of psychology, literature, philosophy, all to talk about the reality of otherness." He had given my husband one of his works, but my French is not yet good enough for that level of smart. Our visitor, I was told, had published some ten books, and is a much-sought after speaker in lectures and conferences.

Then he asked me what I did. "You were an educator, too, back home?" Nowhere near as noble as that, I replied. I wrote and edited for newspapers and magazines. "And now what do you write?" he continued the interrogation. I fidgeted. I looked at his cup, still two-thirds full, so there was no escape in a refill. No psychology and philosophy in what I do, I thought. Aloud, I said, "Just... uhm... fiction... uhm... short stories. Weirdness, individual quirks, some magical element, if I can manage it... that kind of thing."

He nodded, leaned back on his chair, and for a minute was silent. Then, "Me, too, I wish I had more time. I want to write poetry and short stories too."

We looked at each other, him through his square-framed plastic eyeglasses, me squinting because I hadn't put on my contact lenses. Smiling weakly, I went ahead and refilled his cup.

All my girls, but especially Maya and Tara, it hit me then. Not a respected intellectual, and definitely not us. No one is ever really satistified with what they have, are they.

Yun lang. My not-so-original thought for the day.

Love,
Your Ati