Years past, when I wrote everyday, I had a clearer sense of who I was writing to. Amidst the turmoil surrounding, real or imagine, I found refuge in writing to as yet unknown twins of spirt, the people I had longed to hear from my whole life.

Having found a few of these, the need to write outward to the clear unknown has dimmed. I'm caught between the arrogance implicit in even assuming that someone else will read these words and the guilt of not using a gift I've been praised for.

At times, the clamor of my imagined crowd fades from mind and I simply imagine Isabel reading this in her early twenties, imagining as I did what it was like for my parent's when I was young.

If no one else then for you, my lovely brilliant goofy little girl. I love you.