Yesterday I went to the doctor for a physical. Seeing as how I have not had insurance for awhile (I know, I know . . .it's on my list of things to do) this was my first “check-up” in awhile. The man was professional, thorough, and friendly, save for his fixation on my color.
Weird, right?

When I cry. When I sob, I sound just like my mother. I look in the mirror and the tears have magnified my eyes, making them less squinty than normal, less Telles-like, and that face in the mirror is a mirror of my mom's. It's moments like these, when I see myself and hear myself gushing pain and heartache, that I feel most like her daughter.
There are few foods as comforting as spaghetti with red sauce, or as filling. Spaghetti fills everything.