I am addressing my great weekly class of 15 little boys at the white board this week.
They are adoring and adorable. They are 6 and 7 years old.
This week we were doing one of my favourite subjects; pears.
A pear is voluptuous and full of a range of colour. I must like to make things difficult for myself because these little guys would rather draw army figures or monsters.
Just last week I was telling someone that this month (today actually) marks 3 years since you died.
And then, just like, implausibly, some people take a long time to remember their age, I realized that I was off by a whole year.
It is two years. But you have to hush your grief in this world after 6 months. Or 6 weeks. No one wants to hear. You are supposed to move on.
Last week, we are on our way to Washington, DC for a Harvard Reunion- (already half of you think I am lying or at minimum in way over my head) and I am already wondering best practices for faking superior intelligence, when I find out that 6 of us are going to be having a 7:30 breakfast at the mall