Sometimes, when Monday rolls around and I need to choose a word of the week that encapsulates what’s happening around me, the things going on in my life are too sensitive and raw or so personal and intimate, I can’t write about them. I can’t even talk about them, and often, I don’t even want to admit them to myself.
On Sunday, after we’d all eaten more pizza than we should have, after I nearly forgot the homemade zucchini bread in the back of the van and had to run out to fetch it, and after my sisters presented Dad with a new set of corn hole boxes, crafted by my brother-in-law Troy, and …
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